


Shatter Me

by Loveismyrevolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, Did I Mention Angst?, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Introspection, Johnlock Songs, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Alternating, Sherlock Dances, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, Song fic, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Sexual Tension, balletlock, do not copy to another site, sad wanking, showering together, the happiest of Johnlock endings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 171,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution
Summary: This is a story about two men trying to find their way back into the comfort of their companionship. No easy task in the aftermath of the events of Reichenbach, a wedding and a shot through the heart. They are facing a very rocky road ahead with a lot of introspection, misunderstandings, angst and pining. They each try to cope in their own particular way. Eventually, they'll find a way to communicate and learn about the true nature of their feelings.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 371
Kudos: 93





	1. In Loving Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not an AU albeit not canon compliant. It splits off right after the confrontation at Leinster Gardens. There's no baby. There's no redemption for Mary. The tarmac and S4 never happened.
> 
> °°°°°°°°°°
> 
> The chapter titles refer to the song belonging to the respective chapter. There will be one song for each chapter. You'll find A LINK (underlined words!) to listen to it WITHIN THE CHAPTER at the appropriate moment to experience it along with our two most beloved idiots.
> 
> °°°°°°°°°°
> 
> Rating might change and tags will be added when needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was tired of worrying about Sherlock. It was eating him up to sit at home and to wonder if Sherlock was alright, if he would come back, if anything had happened. He had the feeling he should be at his side, have his back, but wasn’t allowed to do so. He was tired of being left in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

* * *

*****part 1***  
Me  
**

It’d been several months since they had been back together. Well… when he said back together he didn’t mean like _together_ together…they never have been together that way, so they couldn’t be back to it! Right? Obviously! And considering the amount of time spent in their shared living arrangement in comparison to the period of separation in relation to the overall duration of their… friendship, it was questionable if it could even be considered 'being back'. That would imply a vast amount of time in a permanent arrangement to even come back to. So, maybe it would be more appropriate to say… since he moved in again.

John sighed.

Oh great. He had started to sound like Sherlock already! Not that he would mind actually, that was probably just what you get when you spend every day of your bloody life with such a madman and when you finally accept that you devoted your whole life to said madman completely…

So when he said back together, he meant _he,_ John, was back. At Baker Street. Back to living with Sherlock Holmes, as the man's flatmate and as the best friend of the brilliant, charming, annoying, absolutely mad and most human human being he has ever known. Because as far as John was concerned, the… arrangement… with Sherlock was definitely permanent. Separation or no.

John had moved back in right after the whole mess with Mary. He still cringed thinking about it. Still accusing himself of being too slow, too stupid, too blind to realise what was right in front of his eyes. Hiding in plain sight, Sherlock would call it. Right, but still…

After the third time he had to watch Sherlock being handled onto a stretcher, and the third time he had thought he would lose him, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go back to Mary. Not the moment that he had realised she was actually a stranger to him! Not with the awareness that it had all been her fault, when he had just learned that _she_ was the person who had put a bullet right through the big and precious heart of the most important person in John’s life.

How was he supposed to live under the same roof as that woman for one more second? He and Sherlock had had arguments about it, during their preparations in the bolthole, and in the moments they had to wait for Mary to arrive. Sherlock had thought it would give them time to think of a plan. Sherlock had thought it would be safest.

_'Safe? Safe, my arse!'_ John huffed at the memory of it.

Sherlock had thought... it would give John the life he always wanted.

If only Sherlock would realise. Why didn't he know? To come back home was all he ever wanted. To be back home, at Sherlock’s side again. That was what he had craved. And it was what he got in the end.

_'But look at the mess now!'_

At that moment, when the paramedics had left and had taken Sherlock with them, pale as the goddamned sheet, John hadn't been able to go with him, stay at his side as he should have. Because SHE was still standing in the middle of the living room, in his and Sherlock’s home and he couldn’t allow that! She hadn’t belonged there; she never had and she never would. She couldn’t be allowed to stay any longer than necessary!

How had she dared block his way, standing between him and Sherlock – once again.  
John had felt boiling with anger. He had tried to keep it at bay, not let his fear for Sherlock overwhelm him. What good would it have done? He had to manage that as quickly as possible. Get to Sherlock before it had been too late.

He had clenched his jaw, his hands in tight fists at his sides. His shoulders squared, he had sniffed in rage.

Staring at Mary he had hissed through his teeth: “Leave Mary, or whoever the fucking hell you are! Leave and never come back. Or you’ll regret it!”

Shaking his head a little, with that small strained grin that never reached his eyes, which predicted someone was in real trouble, he had added: “The problems of your past are your business. But believe me, the problems of your future... are my privilege. I’ll make sure of that if you come anywhere near me or Sherlock ever again!"

He had slowly approached the woman known as Mary step by step and had forced her back towards the stairs until she bumped against the handrail. Before turning and rushing down the stairs she had narrowed her eyes at John, only smirked, which had made John furious, and had said : “I have to admit, I almost got used to it, you know? It was nice to pretend this would work… with us… this life. But honestly, we both always knew it wouldn’t, didn’t we? Not with _him_ back in your life! I’ve always been just second choice… I wouldn’t ever had a chance! Never! Did it really take _all this_ for you to realise? Oh, John…” She had let out a half-hearted laugh, one corner of her mouth mockingly turned up. "You really didn't know, did you? You really _are_ the idiot he always calls you… ."

Shaking her head a little she had finally turned around and left. John had been left behind, speechless. Yes, he knew he had been an idiot not to realise who Mary really was. Yes, he had been an idiot, too slow to prevent _all this_ from happening. But what the hell had all this to do with Sherlock being back in his life… she was second choice, true, but…

After that, everything had happened in a bit of a blur. John informing Mycroft while jumping in a cab and rushing after Sherlock. He could hardly remember getting to the hospital, his mind fogged with fear and regret. Imagining the worst case scenario, he had felt a lump in his throat at the thought of never speaking to Sherlock again, never being able to tell him that he made his choice, that he would stay, that Mary was gone for good.

He tried not to think too hard about Mary, about what she had meant… As long as she was out there, Sherlock was still in danger. That was not an option. John wouldn’t allow it. Maybe Mycroft’s meddling would come in handy for once. He owed him and Sherlock for the mess he caused by losing sight of Sherlock in Serbia. Fucking hell, Mycroft never lost sight of anything, let alone Sherlock! Except when he was most needed….

It wouldn’t do any good to go down that path again, not now. However, Mister Big-Brother-I-worry-for-him-constantly could at least deal with Mary. Take that off their backs. That would hardly be a problem for him.

John was vaguely aware that he had been pacing outside the operation theatre, sitting day and night at Sherlocks bedside. He had ignored the nurses comments that he could leave, take a break and they would take good care of Sherlock. But John had promised himself that he would never leave Sherlock’s side again, that he would never allow anyone else to ‘take care’ of Sherlock again! He would be the one to protect him, that was his duty. It was where he belonged and what had made him the happiest he had ever been in his whole life. What that said about him? He didn’t give a single fuck.

That was probably the reason why John was lost lately. Yes, he was happy to be back. Yes, he never regretted his decision concerning Mary. Even if Sherlock had been hesitant about it at first, downright angry actually when they had talked about it for the first time. However, eventually even Sherlock had calmed down.

Sherlock had been busy with his recovery, being annoyed about how slow it all went, getting fidgety in the flat not able to do much except staying at home solving minor cases via the internet. John had tried his best to be patient and help Sherlock in any possible way.

He didn’t expect everything to be as it had been in ‘the good old days’ – too much had happened since the first time he had shared his life with Sherlock at Baker Street. Especially after everything they both had been through he didn’t expect either of them to be unaffected, to still be the same.

But that wasn’t it. John had the feeling that on their way down the road, he had lost a part of Sherlock. As if there were walls up that he’d never experienced before. Sherlock wouldn’t talk about it. Every time John tried to voice his concern about this topic, it ended in short clipped conversations with Sherlock assuring him everything was alright, and there was nothing to be concerned about, John should drop it, stop fussing, thank you very much!

After a while, Sherlock started to take cases again. Short and easy ones at first, the more difficult ones after regaining some confidence. Sometimes he would take John along, but sometimes he wouldn’t, even when John had nothing else to do, no shift at the surgery, no social calls, no anything.

John would sit at home, waiting for Sherlock to come back, and wondering what the hell was going on.  
  
Sometimes he would get a text saying “Home late. Don’t wait up! SH” or “Case solved. At the yard, paperwork. Boring! SH”.

Sometimes he received nothing for a whole day, leaving John wondering if Sherlock was okay.

Even when he was taken by surprise by texts like: “When will people finally stop being idiots and realise that their mouths should better stay shut in my presence for the sake of preventing my brain shrinking to the size of a raisin from them talking this utter boring bullshit! SH” or the even more appreciated “Dinner at Angelo’s. 8pm. SH” – the easiness that used to be normal between them was gone.

Everything seemed to be odd, more forced, as if Sherlock was keeping himself at bay, shutting John out.

There were even times when Sherlock would just run off when he was irritated, mostly when they had any sort of argument. He would rush out the door, grabbing his coat, not even bothering to put it on. He would only come back after hours of being away, most of the times looking tired, sweaty, shoulders slouched, wandering off to the bathroom immediately after entering the flat without so much as look at John. He would take a shower, sneak into his bedroom and hide there until the next morning, avoiding any conversation about the argument they’ve had.  
The next morning he would pretend that nothing had happened. Sipping tea in his armchair, easy conversation about nothing important at all before burying his nose in his laptop, tapping away on his blog, writing emails or whatever…

This was the place John found himself in right now. They’ve had a major argument about exactly that.

John was tired of worrying about Sherlock. It was eating him up to sit at home and to wonder if Sherlock was alright, if he would come back, if anything had happened. He had the feeling he should be at his side, have his back, but wasn’t allowed to do so. He was tired of being left in the dark.

Sometimes he sat in his chair, the flat quiet and empty and his thoughts would drift off to a time he tried to forget, a time he has been sitting in the same chair for days on end, a time where the same feelings had haunted him, where he thought he would never have a chance to make it up to Sherlock ever again. He had been so alone, he owed Sherlock so much… Now that he was given this chance, he wasn’t allowed to repay the debt, which he still felt was too great a burden to carry on his shoulders.

So when he had screamed at Sherlock earlier this day: “Sherlock, you can’t fucking shut me out of everything! You can’t do that to me! God damn it, you promised. Do you remember? What am I to you? A piece of furniture? You promised you’d never leave me behind! Never again! For fucks sake Sherlock, doesn’t all this mean anything to you anymore? Our friendship? Trust? Just tell me if I’m in the way! If I have to leave! I won’t stand in your way! Is that it? Is that why you wanted me to stay with Mary? Shit…. Sherlock… is that why you jumped? To get rid of me? Huh?”

It hadn’t come as a surprise. These feelings had boiled in him for a long time. His voice had been shaking, he had been trembling with anger, words spilling over that he never had wanted to voice, all his deepest fears surfacing in his helplessness. He had been standing in front of Sherlock, hands on his hips, back hunched, head hanging between his shoulders. His chest heaving from the heavy breathing. His heart racing.

When he had heard no answer from Sherlock, not even any movement or noise, he had looked up. He had lifted his gaze to Sherlock’s face and had been shocked at what he had seen there. Sherlock had looked bewildered, angry even, as if John had slapped him in the face, eyes narrowed. A desperation John had never seen on him before.

When Sherlock had finally spoken it had been not much more than a whisper: “If only you knew…”  
So it had been nothing new when he had turned, no rush this time, more like the retreat of a defeated animal. He hadn’t even grabbed his coat. He had simply left the flat, thudding down the stairs. When John had heard the front door slam shut, he had sagged on his chair, buried his face in his palms, a dry sob escaping his throat.

This was too much. He couldn’t do this anymore. He was exhausted.

He sat there for a while, not moving, thoughts whirling in his head. When he calmed down a bit, he sat up straight and took a deep breath. Running his fingers through is hair, he sighed deeply.

Remembering the last time he felt this drained he moved over to the couch and opened his laptop. Music, television and a drink had always been the only distraction for his tortured mind. He did not let himself drink. He had been drowning himself, his problems, way too much after...well after _that_. He also wasn’t much interested in any tedious crap telly at the moment, he decided to just open his music account, start his favourite playlist and turn the volume up as high as possible to blow his mind free from any other thought.

When his laptop had finally started up and he watched his desktop flicker on, his eyes fell immediately on that little icon he ignored successfully most of the time. He wasn’t able to bring himself to delete it. But he wasn’t actually keen on being reminded of it, either.

Now however, be it the dreadful mood he was in or the memories that came up, [he clicked the icon](https://youtu.be/IwHcqe4ciz0) before he even consciously decided to do so and regretted it immediately when the first accords of a silent electric guitar filled the room – a song he knew too well, a song he couldn't stop listening to at a time when everything he had left was clinging to the memory of the one person that mattered.

He couldn’t bring himself to turn the song off, so he turned the volume up until it filled the room and his head, thinking that it possibly may be able to help as it did before.  
  
He sat on the sofa, closed his eyes, oblivious to everything around him, going back to a place in his head void of air, descending to the darkest depths of his mind…

Memories flashed back with every new and oh so painful familiar note… John could almost feel himself again sitting slouched down in his armchair, bare feet, staring into the void… again and again replaying in his mind that moment he had screamed “Sherlock!” up to the man standing on that roof, seeing him fall in slow motion, running towards him as if he were able to catch him, rescue him, hold him, make everything alright….

He remembered the first time he had heard this song. He had been on the tube, going nowhere, playing down a long forgotten playlist on his phone when it had hit him like a truck; his breath caught in his chest he had felt choked, he had trembled, he had needed to get off the tube at the next station without even realising where he had been. The moment he had stepped on the platform he had had a proper breakdown. The people around him had been concerned, asking if he needed help. He had just sobbed in his sleeve which he had raised to cover his eyes. He had been crouched on the ground, his legs unable to hold him up. The people had retreated after a little while. A much longer while later he had calmed down and got up, walking all the way back to Baker Street.

In his memory were pictures of him throwing dishes against the kitchen wall, crying out until Mrs Hudson had come up, lingering in the doorway, giving him pitying looks but helpless all the same…

He remembered the moment he had decided to move on, to look for a new place to live in, to go back to work, but nothing had helped fill the hollow feeling inside of him.

All that welled up in an endless stream of images behind his eyes, rolling over him as a gigantic wave threatening to drown him.

When the lyrics started he let himself slump back against the backrest of the sofa, head thrown back, leaning on top of the backrest, eyes squinted shut.

**_Thanks for all you've done_ **

**_I've missed you for so long_ **

**_I can't believe you're gone_ **

**_You still live in me_ **

**_I feel you in the wind_ **

**_You guide me constantly_ **

Yes, he thought, that was what had helped him through that time, Sherlock living inside his memories, guiding him, being everywhere. That was what had kept John alive back then, the fear of missing out on anything that would have been connected to Sherlock in the slightest, he couldn’t possibly abandon any of that by just leaving… It wasn’t allowed to be forgotten. So he had to live on…

**_I never knew what it was to be alone, no_ **

**_'Cause you were always there for me_ **

**_You were always home waiting_ **

**_And I'll come home and I miss your face so_ **

**_Smiling down on me_ **

**_I close my eyes to see_ **

John’s throat felt strangled. That was what had tortured him when Sherlock had been… gone. That was why there had been no other option for him than to move out. The silence of the flat, no longer filled by Sherlock’s extensive monologues, Sherlock’s sulks… what would he have given for a bit of bickering, for being called an idiot again, for Sherlock’s sulking form on the sofa… because that would have also meant Sherlock’s bright eyes, mischief around the corner of his mouth, Sherlock’s stir crazy joy at the prospect of catching a serial killer, Sherlock’s warmth and gentleness towards Mrs Hudson and that private little smile Sherlock kept only for John…

And now? Now that he was back? John had hoped to feel less lonely. He had hoped to get his Sherlock back. He had hoped to feel as if he belonged again. But where was that smile? The glint in his eyes? He hadn’t seen it in a long time. Had it ever been back since Sherlock’s return? There had always been a silent understanding between the two of them, but now John had the feeling that he didn’t understand Sherlock at all…

Knowing the song by heart, remembering each word as if it were burned into the back of his mind, John silently started singing along. Nothing more than a whisper at first, but each note echoed boisterously in the hollow of his heart…

**_And I know, you're a part of me_ **

**_And it's your song that sets me free_ **

**_I sing it while I feel I can't hold on_ **

**_I sing tonight 'cause it comforts me_ **

During the quiet interlude John felt his eyes tear up and warm droplets slowly started running down his face. He remembered himself singing this song over and over again. On days he nearly hadn’t been able to stand it anymore, he had played it on loop, had started singing over again, when he had just finished, not daring to stop out of fear to be alone again, being afraid of the silence surrounding him.

He slouched forward, resting his elbows on his knees, letting his head hang heavily between his shoulders. He didn’t care that his tears dropped on the coffee table and on the rug. They weren't the first tears which soaked the furniture of 221B and he was afraid they wouldn’t be the last ones…

**_I carry the things that remind me of you_ **

**_In loving memory of_ **

**_The one that was so true_ **

**_You were as kind as you could be_ **

**_And even though you're gone_ **

**_You still mean the world to me_ **

By now John was singing along as loud as he was able to, letting his tears run down his face, voice choked by his own ragged breath. Regretting everything and nothing…

Thinking of his silly little souvenirs he used to carry in his pockets... Sherlock’s broken magnifying glass he had gotten back when he was handed Sherlock’s personal belongings after he… he was… God, he couldn’t even think about it . Or that bee Sherlock once found on the pavement and which he preserved in synthetic resin… a little laugh escaped him at the memory of Sherlock’s delight at the pollen which had still been visible at the bee’s legs.

**_I never knew what it was to be alone, no_ **

**_'Cause you were always there for me_ **

**_You were always home waiting_ **

**_But now I come home and it's not the same, no_ **

**_It feels empty and alone_ **

**_I can't believe you're gone_ **

John sagged again, all laughter forgotten. His shoulders started to shake, shattering waves ran through his whole body. Here he was then... he had desperately hoped for one last miracle, had begged for it. Now that it was granted, he was sitting in his home – the only one he ever had – and felt as alone as he could be, the chair opposite from him as empty as it had been. Sherlock was back, but in a way he was still gone and John didn’t know how to change that, what to do. Sobbing and shaking and clenching his fists into his hair he let the lyrics wash over him…

**_And I know, you're a part of me_ **

**_And it's your song that sets me free_ **

**_I sing it while I feel I can't hold on_ **

**_I sing tonight 'cause it comforts me_ **

**_I'm glad He set you free from sorrow_ **

**_I'll still love you more tomorrow_ **

**_And you will be here with me still_ **

John stilled, took a deep breath, too exhausted to take any more. Why was he so devastated by all this? Why couldn’t he stand a silly argument? They had argued before, before all this fucking shit had happened and threatened to destroy them. They were shouting and swearing at each other, running off… but they’d always come back, most of the time just grinning at each other, giggling about their silliness and that was it. Now it felt as if his world would fall apart. He drew another deep breath, tried to get some oxygen which he felt had left his body entirely.

He had to deal with this. He had to be glad that Sherlock was back, that they were both alive, back together again at 221B. And it had to be enough. If things were different now, who could he blame? They’ve both gone through so much, each had to deal with their own demons – of course things were different, he had to accept it as it came. And there was no benefit in hoping or wishing for anything … more…

_‘Pull it together Watson’_ , he thought _, ‘you can do this!’_

Sitting straighter he calmed his breath, shook his shoulders and arms to loosen all the tension he had built up and silently sang along the next lines…

**_And what you did you did with feeling_ **

**_And you always found the meaning_ **

**_And you always will_ **

**_And you always will_ **

**_And you always will_ **

_‘Okay enough of that’_ , John thought, trying to convince himself that he had regained some composure, but actually he couldn’t stand it anymore. He was, once again, fleeing from it. Shutting it down, burying this part of his past deep down in his soul, shut away in a gold-shot treasure chest. ‘ _Quite pirate-y’_ , he thought with a little smile. ‘ _There was only one man holding a key to that chest and_ _that man isn’t even aware of it’_ , John thought sombrely.

He reached out to turn the volume down while opening his eyes. His view was blurred by tears and from his eyes being squeezed shut far too long. He cleared his throat and reached forward for the laptop and only then realised a little movement to his left. John turned his head and froze, his breath faltered. He didn’t dare to move let alone say anything.

In the opening, door handle still in hand, there stood Sherlock.

He was pale as if all his blood was drained out of him, he looked as if struck by lightning. This sight was even worse than the one before, right after their argument, just before Sherlock had fled to get away from the situation, from John – once again – they hadn’t been able to solve it. Now there was a pain in Sherlock’s creased eyebrows John hadn’t seen before. He looked defeated, shattered. A vulnerability in his eyes that John felt physically. John’s heart ached at the sight, he felt a knot forming in his stomach. Sherlock gazed at him, lips slightly parted as if to say something, but only drew in a shuddering breath.

“Sherlock.” John whispered. A faint reflection of that cry that haunted him in his dreams.

And once again, Sherlock left. Left John behind, not saying anything, not explaining, just whirling around and rushing down the stairs. John didn’t even hear the front door closing.

The song continued as John hadn’t reached the button to turn it off in time. He wasn’t even aware of his hand still hovering mid-air. His mind going blank. ' _How long has Sherlock been standing there? When had he come back? He wasn’t supposed to be back that early, he always stayed away for hours after an argument! Why was he back so early? How long had he been standing there….’_

The thoughts kept whirling and nothing had meaning anymore. He couldn't make sense of anything actually… Sherlock jumping, John struggling through is grief, Mary appearing, Sherlock coming back, John marrying that wife – good god- her shooting Sherlock, his fear, his anger, his confusion… and now this mess of his friendship with Sherlock…

All he had been through crashed over him, buried him, like one of these buildings struck by a bomb back in Afghanistan… it was even the same kind of fear The fear to be crushed by the unfathomable weight of it all.

This wasn’t good! Panic rising. This wasn’t good at all! But why? What happened? John heard Sherlock’s voice in his head: ‘ _John, as always you see but you don’t observe!’_ Yes, alright, but what was he missing? Where did it all go wrong?  
He let out a pained groan and didn’t care that the music kept playing…

**_And I know, you're a part of me_ **

**_And it's your song that sets me free_ **

**_I sing it while I feel I can't hold on_ **

**_I sing tonight 'cause it comforts me_ **

No. No! This couldn’t go on like this. They couldn’t keep running from each other, John decided.

He couldn’t feel any comfort anymore by these last chords. He slammed his laptop shut.

With a sudden determination he stood, closed his eyes again for a short moment, bracing himself for whatever might come next, and hurried after Sherlock.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/IwHcqe4ciz0)


	2. One Last Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anticipation made him hasten even more, getting him slightly out of breath. At the same time, he already felt his mind quieting. But this wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. He had to get rid of all this useless and illogical nonsense to clear his mind and be able to think properly again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

* * *

Sherlock didn‘t even realise he was moving until the fresh May air hit his face. The moment he stepped on the pavement, he remembered his coat still hanging upstairs, but never mind, he definitely would not go back for it now. And the spring sun warmed the air enough to not freeze anymore after all. All he wanted was to leave everything behind. Away from Baker Street, away from 221B, from John, from arguments, from abominable feelings.... he groaned and gave a strangled frustrated cry at the thought, and made an older woman passing him jump. He only gave her a moody glare and she hurried away.

He buried his hands in his pockets and stomped his way through the streets shoulders hanging, staring at the pavement passing under his feet. With each step putting more distance between him and the annoying, distracting, painful problems he didn’t want to care about. But it didn’t start to feel any better. It was supposed to get better. This wasn’t working!

His mind was fogged. He was shocked. He was confused. He felt old wounds being torn open to bleed again. It hurt. Damn! Shit! Fucking feelings. He thought he would manage. He thought he had found a way to handle it.

Of course everything was different. They were different! Of course John was angry about the current situation. But that didn’t mean that Sherlock would let his own decisions falter. Getting weak, wouldn’t change anything! Nothing at all. He had seen, where that had led to. 

_'Weakness!'_ He spat out bitterly in his thoughts.  
No, his mission, everything he had done could not be for nothing. He wouldn’t risk getting John in any kind of danger! Not after having secured his safety in the first place. No… taking him to minor cases was okay, just to please him. But if Sherlock expected any danger at all, he wouldn’t falter, just to keep John’s mood at ease, to avoid arguments. John could be stubborn though, he always had been. ' _That of all things had to stay the same'_ , Sherlock thought sourly, cringing his brows even further.

He had built his walls against superfluous sentiment up again at vast expense. He was very keen on keeping it that way. For everyone’s benefit! He could take John’s anger, because that’s what he had expected after all.

But then there was John this afternoon, accusing him of making the same mistakes he had done when he had to leave, back then; Moriarty and his network on his heels. How could John not see that everything was different now? How could he not see that it had been the sentiment that had made John a target? How could he not see that it had been Sherlock's weakness that had been the cause of the events leading up to the fall and all the sacrifices that had to be made. Sherlock tried to do better now. Sherlock tried to be stronger now. Not get weak again. And therefore protect John Watson. How could John not see that this was an improvement, that it was preferable? For both of them, for everyone!

And then the silly thought that Sherlock might not want him around…. Why did John think Sherlock had gone through all that trouble in the first place, all that mess, all that… torture? Why did he think Sherlock had come back, when he had already been officially declared dead? No need for that, except for John. Being close to John. Not to have to endure any more of that pain in his chest that hadn't been caused by whips or punches, by hunger or too many hours on his feet without any rest or sleep.  
  
There had been only one antidote to that kind of torture, and Sherlock had known it. There had been no way he could have stayed dead. No way he could have lived a life without John Watson at his side. Not after he'd had a taste of what it felt like to be such a great man’s best friend.

Oblivious to his surroundings Sherlock wandered through London’s streets, bumping into people without even noticing. Getting lost without even realising. Because his mind was stuck on what he witnessed just moments ago.

He'd come back after their argument, because he couldn’t just leave it this time. He had been desperate to convince John to drop that issue, to accept it the way it was as the best possible solution. No need to get angry about things one couldn’t change after all. He just wanted to forget, some rest, some peace, some… oblivion. That would be bliss…he’d never opt to remember.

But there was John, sitting slumped and boneless on their couch, music like thunder roaring through the air. At first Sherlock had thought this was just his way to get out his anger and aggression. Loud music was known to accomplish that, wasn’t it?

But then he had started listening to the lyrics and John had started to sing along. This wasn’t just any music, this was highly emotional and probably important to John. When John had raised his head and Sherlock had seen tears streaming down his face, his first instinct had been to fly to his side, take away the pain, dry his tears. Only then he had realised that this probably wasn’t welcome. John had been furious during their argument, he wouldn’t just let it go. That’s not the way John Watson was wired.

He had listened carefully and couldn’t deny that this song was hurtful. He had never seen John Watson cry before. Not once. Strong, reliable, deadly John Watson. This somehow made everything so much more painful. His heart ached for John, he hadn’t expected such an extent of emotions. He didn’t know how to handle it. He wasn’t good with it, not his kind of expertise.

But why would John be that sad? The song… it has been about loss, about memories, about being alone… But… John wasn’t alone, was he? At least not in his home as was claimed in the song. Well, Sherlock was not exactly the kind of person whose company was desirable, but he was there… sometimes. 

Surely John wouldn’t be this sorrowful about Mary leaving, not to this extent anyway. Or was he? Did he miss her face and her smiles? Did he miss coming home to someone he loved? Sherlock had tried to force him back to Mary, but John wouldn’t let him. It had been John’s own choice, not his fault this time… Sherlock was fuming internally. Why was everything always his fault? Why did he always miss things, getting things wrong when it came to people he cared for… when it came to John. Why was John Watson not as transparent as all the other idiots he knew. It was infuriating.

Or was it about himself… about Sherlock? Had he read it all wrong? Wouldn’t be the first time. Their argument, which had undoubtedly led to this display of emotion, hadn't been about Mary after all. Not on the surface at least. John bringing up the fall. Again. Of course the fall… everything was always about the fall. As if he would have had a choice. It’s not as if he had chosen to fall for fun…  
Of course he knew John had grieved him. He knew it hadn’t been easy. But this? And all this because of Sherlock’s death – well, the time he had been away?  
He was back now, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that all that counted? Wasn’t that what Sherlock had worked towards the whole time of his exile? It was supposed to make John happier or at least less gloomy.   
  
And hadn't they talked about it? Hadn’t they moved on from all that long ago? Sherlock was under the impression that all that had settled… but then John was angry, had shouted at him, had accused him, had thought it had been easy for Sherlock…. So it made sense. The pieces were now falling into place.  
This meant John hadn’t forgiven him at all. He was still angry at Sherlock. He wasn’t happy, and it was all Sherlock’s fault. There was always something. He should have realised. Stuck in his own mind, strained to detach himself from any distracting thought, he hadn't. He hadn't seen it for what it was. He had missed it, he had failed John. Again!

The precious walls around his heart began to crack, he was afraid everything would collapse like a house of cards, blown away by this storm of feelings as if it never existed. Had it ever been real, this feeble attempt of a fortress? Or had he fooled himself all that time? He had never been able to separate himself from John. He even came back from the death for him. Twice!

His mind whirled with all these reflections. This destroyed everything he had fought for, what he tried to build. This disturbed everything. What was he supposed to do about it? About the fights with John? About the icy atmosphere in 221B? About John drifting farther and farther away from him? It was an utter mess! He felt as if he was losing his grip, losing focus, his well organised mind jumbled and muddled and utterly useless.  
Of course there would be ways to quiet his mind, he had chosen them before. He knew the heavenly feeling a simple shot up his veins would ensure.

But after the disappointment he had seen on John’s face when he had found him in that drug den a month after the wedding… John was never supposed to see him like that. Why had he even been there? Why hadn't he stayed in his boring suburb home with his boring mid-range car with his boring pregnant wife (who turned out to be not so boring and not so pregnant after all) … in his boring without-Sherlock life?  
When Sherlock had seen the hurt and agitation in John’s eyes and the tenseness in his posture, he had felt a guilt he’d never experienced before. He had always been aware that his controlled usage hadn't been appreciated, that they regarded him as an addict and treated him like some sort of moron who couldn’t control himself. And when he said ‘they’ he meant Mycroft. He had been put in rehab, as if that would change anything…. oh, how little did they know! Why would he drop the only possibility to quiet his mind and therefore the only possibility to endure reality! The drugs weren't threatening his life, they were ensuring it!

The difference has been, back then he hadn’t had anything to lose. Nothing he would have considered valuable. But John finding him high as a kite, John looking so utterly hurt, he had realised that that could have easily meant the definite loss of John’s trust and friendship. And in contrast to drugs, _that_ would have been something to most likely destroy Sherlock’s life. So he had made his first and last vow to himself – he would never touch any drug ever again if that could cause John to disappear from his life entirely! After a while he had learned to cope.  
Now in dire need of a cure, he had made up his mind and he knew exactly what to do!

After noting his current location, he mapped out in his mind the quickest way to get to his destination and hurried to get there; it was still quite a distance to walk.

He remembered the first time he had been there, that had been confusing, too. Quite confusing! So it was the proper place to be right now. Every time he needed to get something out of his system actually. Of course he had his boltholes, but this was different. He had made use of it fairly often after his return, which showed him how much things were not alright.

On his way there Sherlock’s body started fidgeting. He already felt all the energy and buzz drain from his brain into his body. He could feel the restlessness in his limbs, the tension in his spine grow more intense, which made him appear even higher and even more aloof than he already was. He welcomed it as he wasn’t keen on any social interaction at all right now.

The anticipation made him hasten even more, getting him slightly out of breath. At the same time, he already felt his mind quieting. But this wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. He had to get rid of all this useless and illogical nonsense to clear his mind and be able to think properly again.

When he arrived, he made sure not to be seen and climbed through a small prepared hole in the fences. He had made sure it would be in a place out of view from public and any workmen, not that there were much anyway. There wasn’t a lot of activity yet, the negotiations had already gone on for years, but he knew it wouldn’t last much longer. No later than by the end of the year he had to vanish from here, had to look for an alternative location. They already started to strip the chimneys, but Sherlock knew exactly how to time his visits here to not be discovered. This would change, of course. More and more investors, property developers, politicians seem to get interested. However, even if they were to make up their mind unexpectedly fast, he could be gone within minutes. That said, it would be difficult to find another place this suitable to his needs within a reasonable distance to Baker Street. For now though, this was perfect!

He made his way in and went to pick up his well stashed equipment.  
He pulled out the bag, where he kept spare clothes. A suit wasn’t made for this after all, it would constrain him and restrict his movements. He also wouldn’t like his dress shirt to get all sweaty and dusty. He didn’t like all sloppy and saggy sweatpants which would wrap around his legs either, that was distracting. So he changed into more comfortable and stretchy but still very snug fit white footless dancing tights which he had unearthed from his pool of disguises. He had always hoped for the right case to come along to make use of them. They were his own though. Well used from long ago classes. He was glad he had kept them. He completed his change of clothes by pulling over a loose and worn out long-sleeved shirt. Not his usual style, but perfect for this purpose. It would leave him all the room he needed and all boundaries would disappear. Just him, his body and the emptiness around him. Then he fished out a portable, but very effective Bluetooth speaker, especially purchased for this sole purpose. The best of course; best sound, best range, best volume - it was quite the space he had to fill with music after all.  
  
Barefoot, he made his way into the former engine hall, long ago cleared of any machinery, deserted and left in a limbo between abandonment and ambitious plans of restoration.  
He had even made the effort to clear the floor of the scattered rubble; he couldn’t get rid of the dust completely, but nothing he would hurt himself with.  
Entering the main hall he marvelled for a moment at the sight before him; light drifting through the top windows high above his head, showing nothing but the sky above London and some seagulls floating through the air as weightless as feathers. While walking slowly into the room, which each time still filled him with veneration, the air inside the hall filled with little clouds of dust puffing up from under his feet, damping the sunbeams into different shades of haze, turning the still lingering scent of engineering into a more earthy and muted odour.  
Along the walls, the room was lined with rectangular pillars on both sides, which parted into some adjoining spaces lying in the dark, from which Sherlock now emerged into the light.  
  
His memories drifted back to the first time he had been here. A totally different occasion; but causing similar confusion. He had followed hot on John’s heels, who had back then left in probably the same mood as he himself had been in today. In the end, John was taken here to meet up with someone who technically should have been dead, too. What a very fitting choice Sherlock had made to make this location his place to be, back from the dead.

The conversation he had overheard, the insinuations had left him utterly confused and shaken.  
The look on John’s face when he asked: “You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?”  
And Irene’s only reaction had been: “Are you jealous?”  
That moment Sherlock had known that it had been a big mistake to come here.  
“We’re not a couple”, John had said.  
“Yes, you are”, Irene Adler had responded without even looking up from her phone.  
John had seemed lost and hadn’t known how to answer and neither had Sherlock.  
He had found his way home that day in a daze and luckily – or not so luckily – he was distracted by these morons threatening Mrs Hudson. All the words spoken at Battersea power station gone and forgotten… but were they? Hadn’t he thought about them? Each time he’d come here?  
Every. Single. Time.

Now however, he linked his phone to the speaker, searched for the song he had in mind since he decided to come here today. He knew enough songs to find a fitting one for every mood and every problem to solve. Today though, he had to get out all the guilt, all the sadness, all the confusion.  
When he found the song, he turned up the volume so that the music would fill the building like a wave of early summer air, smooth but elusive, filled with the scent of rain on the pavement and a shimmer of thunder and storm like a promise on the horizon. That’s exactly what he remembered to have smelled standing on the roof of Bart’s, that’s what is etched in his memory and couldn’t be deleted, no matter how hard he tried.

To free himself from that goddamn guilt that told him that it was all his fault, even if only for some blissful minutes, [he pressed play](https://youtu.be/qnkuBUAwfe0) on his phone and made his way to the centre of the room.

He stood up straight, head bent backwards, making him feel the stretch along his throat all the way up to his chin, the very tips of his curls caressing his nape and the crease where neck merged into upper back. His eyes closed, arms hanging by his sides, hands open and unbent, palms loosely resting against his thighs, he took a deep breath and concentrated, waiting. This was the only occasion he allowed his transport to get the better of his mind.

The first sounds of guitar chords echoed from the walls and the roof and immediately Sherlock felt the tension fall off his shoulders. All thoughts vanishing from his brain. He felt absolutely still and quiet. He could breathe easier and he felt as if his body was taking over control. Sherlock was aware of every single muscle.

At first, he kept standing there utterly still, letting the music seep into him, filling every single corner of body and mind. Bit by bit he felt more immersed in it, as if the music was washing him clean from every emotional dirt and filth he felt covered with.  
After a while he felt his body started to sway lightly, his head slowly rolling over from one shoulder to the other and back until his head hung forwards, his chin on his breastbone. He kept his eyes shut, breathing slowly.  
The moment the lyrics started he felt his arms rising, his hands gripping his head, his fingers resting in his curls. He pressed his fingertips firmer into his scalp to register the touch and to feel more grounded, to be aware of the present and to prevent himself from floating and soaring and losing himself as he was so often afraid of. 

Still gripping his head, his whole upper body came to life, gliding in one powerful circle around his middle, head thrown back, fingers clutching his hair as if to be afraid to lose hold of something.  
Bowing his knees slightly as his legs became restless and throwing himself forwards he spread his arms wide and waving from one side to the other as if torn between two opponents. Always, always, the same feeling. Even now he couldn't escape from it; being torn.

**_Please come now I think I'm falling_ **

**_I'm holding on to all I think is safe_ **

**_It seems I found the road to nowhere_ **

**_And I'm trying to escape_ **

His feet wouldn’t move. They seemed to be stuck to the ground, sticking in this moment. His back was tensing, his shoulders swaying, his arms moving in waves up and down as if praying to some higher powers he didn’t even believe in.  
Yes … trying to escape; he had never been able to, had he?  
Sherlock had lost all control of his body, it wasn’t possible for him to command it anymore; what a relief to let it go, to not hold back anything, to not being responsible for anything… to surrender; for once without the feeling to have lost the game.

**_I yelled back when I heard thunder_ **

**_But I'm down to one last breath_ **

**_And with it let me say_ **

**_Let me say_ **

He didn’t even know why he had chosen this song. Was it a reaction to John’s grief, to John’s memories about his fall? Was it about his present feeling of confusion? What was it that he wanted to say? Did he even want to say anything? To whom? Who would listen? Who would understand? There had always been only one person who he had trusted, who would understand him. And he had tried, he had tried so hard to tell, to explain. But finally he had given up, best not to make himself too vulnerable, it wouldn’t do him any good as he knew from experience.  
He was afraid. Sherlock was afraid of falling all over again, of falling apart.

**_Hold me now_ **

**_I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking_ **

**_Maybe six feet_ **

**_Ain't so far down_ **

His arms started clutching around himself, holding himself, holding himself together, securing himself from breaking. His face contorted in pain, as if already broken, he couldn’t even stop it in time. _'But screw it! Nobody here to witness!'_ Sherlock thought.  
And finally his feet started to move. Slowly first, hesitantly, little step to his side. This felt better, his footing much more stable. Okay, he could work from here, good position to continue...

****

**_I'm looking down now that it's over_ **

**_Reflecting on all of my mistakes_ **

**_I thought I found the road to somewhere_ **

**_Somewhere in His grace_ **

**_I cried out heaven save me_ **

**_But I'm down to one last breath_ **

Pictures flashed in his mind. Standing on a roof, looking down, phone clasped in his hand, realising his mistake. He had underestimated the situation, he had failed, he had to endure the consequences…  
He startled himself, when he heard his own throaty voice crying out _“heaven save me”,_ reverberating the lyrics, his breath starting to get puffed, his body cringing forward.  
_'No. No!'_ he shouted in his mind, he didn’t need anyone to save him. He wanted them to leave him alone, everyone, no matter who!  
He tried to shove his thoughts aside. After all he was here to forget, to clear his mind until nothing was left but blankness.  
So, he focused on the purity of his movements, on the clarity of the techniques. Pique, arabesque, chassé, soutenue… this was stable, this was reliable, this always remained the same. He had learned it all, had punished his body. Enduring the pain this drill involved had once been the only drug he needed. Oblivion, shift of the focus… this was what he wanted to achieve here! There, that was a place to go in his memories. Punishment for inaccuracy, that was something he could accept, something he could stand, something he embraced.  
He started to withdraw into his mind-palace, to a room which was empty except for a huge mirror! Nothing but his own reflection, focus on himself and nothing else. Nothing to distract him. Calmness flooded him, peace. Good.

**_And with it let me say_ **

**_Let me say_ **

Having regained his assurance, his confidence, his power, he picked up on the music and his body came to life, started whirling through the room. In cautious turns first, both feet on the ground, hesitant to lose grip; soutenues, starting slow, getting faster and faster; Sherlock keeping his focus on a fixed point, turning his head at a tearing pace, protecting himself from getting dizzy. 

**_Hold me now_ **

**_I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking_ **

**_Maybe six feet_ **

**_Ain't so far down_ **

**_Hold me now_ **

**_I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking_ **

**_Maybe six feet_ **

**_Ain't so far down_ **

_'Yes, that’s it! Focus! Focus!'_ he thought, still speeding up the pace; changing to pirouettes which allowed him to feel free as ever before, piqué, piqué; letting go of the ground with one foot, letting go of the stability, physically, mentally, emotionally. _'_ _No! Not good! Not good! Back! Back!'_ it screamed within him. But it was too late. The next lyrics crashing over him unsolicited.

**_I'm so far down_ **

**_Sad eyes follow me_ **

**_But I still believe there's something left for me_ **

John’s confused gaze fixed on him up on the roof indelible, committed to memory, reflecting his own pain, his own desperation. Tears running down his cheeks. John trusting him, hoping and then disbelievingly realising the extent of the situation.  
Absolutely desperate, Sherlock kept turning, running, rushing through the room, from one corner to the other; forwards or backwards? He couldn’t choose, once again torn between two forces. Which was the right direction? His feet sliding, slowing, his upper body bending, bowing, arms and legs flexing; even his feet changing from being stretched to being bent; feeling the stretch in his calves, his flanks, his neck. Every single muscle in his body struggling; each of his loved terms for the movements forgotten, lost in numbness.

**_So please come stay with me_ **

**_'Cause I still believe there's something left for you and me_ **

**_For you and me_ **

**_For you and me_ **

Slumping down on the ground, lying on his back, he had to catch his breath. _'You and me. You and me. There’s always the two of us. You and me...against the rest of the world.'_ Was that still true? _'Please let it be true!'_ _  
_ Letting the music ripple through his body Sherlock heaved his back from the ground in waves, feeling the tension in his abs growing, wondering if that was the reason for the tight feeling in his chest.

Anyway, he wasn’t done here. He needed more! He hadn’t reached his limit yet. Always forcing his own boundaries; more, stronger, faster.  
Turning on his belly, pushing forcefully with his arms Sherlock jumped back to his feet. He had to get all this pent-up tension, all this strain, this intensity and tightness out of his transport; this was unbearable!  
He ran and slumped on his knees, sliding over the floor, well aware about the abrasion on his shins and patellas but not caring. Pain. Physical pain was good, pain was easy, something easy to treat!  
Leaping back to his feet, he changed his movements, more powerful.  
More, more! Turning in circles through the room, claiming the whole space. More, more! He needed more! Shifting once again; leaps, small at first, straight forward, bigger, grand jetés. Not enough!  
Reaching one corner he proceeded to big long leaps alternating with fast turns in a big circle, trying to take over the whole room, owning it all, leaving no space for anything else. Just him, just the music, just his movements. Feeling all the power reigning his muscles.  
By now, the sweat ran down his back, sticking the shirt to his body. He felt the ache, verging on pain. His legs were covered in dust, clinging to his feet, his hair was slick against his temples. He noticed the cold air forced by his rapid motions caressing his face, almost pricking because of the sweat damping his skin. Good! This was good; one more sensation to distract him from thoughts!

****

**_Hold me now_ **

**_I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking_ **

Out of breath, short pause, chest heaving, heart racing. No not ready, still able to feel, still able to think, still able to stand on his feet.

****

**_Hold me now_ **

**_I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking_ **

**_Maybe six feet_ **

**_Ain't so far down_ **

More. Whirling, jumping, turning, stretching. More! Stretch in the abs, tension in the back, sensation of nearly breaking. Good. Good! More! Pain in the calves, almost cramping, feet getting tired, legs trembling. 

****

**_Hold me now_ **

**_I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking_ **

**_Maybe six feet_ **

**_Ain't so far down_ **

Panting, gasping, pumped out. Lungs and chest hurting, heart nearly capitulating from exhaustion physically, emotionally. Drained. Empty.  
Sherlock spread his arms wide - one last breath - and he let himself fall, forwards, creating a painfully familiar feeling of loss, of finality, of surrender.

****

**_Please come now I think I'm falling_ **

**_I'm holding on to all I think is safe_ **

  
Finally, preventing himself from hitting the ground just in time, he lay on his front in the dust. His whole body trembling, not able to move anymore.  
And finally he could vent, let go, abandon himself to the real cause of his exasperation. Soon his back started shaking. After a short while his whole body was taken by convulsions from crying, from sobbing, his tears seeping away in the dust on the ground.

It took quite a long time for him to regain his senses and to pull himself together.  
Tired and exhausted he collected his things, storing them away in their usual hiding place. Pulling out his clothes, he wondered what to do. He couldn’t walk through the city like this, he didn’t even have his coat. He cursed his own silliness. It would be chilly outside now. He should have known that it would get late, considering the state he had been in when he left.  
_'Well then'_ , he thought. He changed into his bespoke trousers, barely watching out for his skinned legs, wondering if the trousers could be cleaned. He would have to arrange that.  
He didn’t take off the sweaty shirt, because otherwise his dress shirt would be ruined for sure. Pulling on his jacket he felt sticky and dirty, but couldn’t help it at the moment.  
He went by public transport, even if the way home took him much longer like this, because he was sure that no cab would take him in this state. It wasn’t as bad as back then after harpooning a pig, but still.

Arriving at Baker Street Sherlock hesitated. For a while he kept oscillating on the pavement in front of the shiny black door, which felt less and less like the refuge it used to be.  
He regained his courage and opened the door, entering the hallway and being grateful that Mrs Hudson didn’t bother to greet him.  
He listened carefully to any noises coming from upstairs, trying to figure out John’s exact location in the flat; Sherlock didn’t feel any urge to run into him. He didn't feel like answering any questions about where he had been, let alone about his appearance. And knowing John he was certain to be pestered with an interrogation. John wouldn’t be able to resist, he never could.

He heard some noise from upstairs. Carefully climbing the seventeen steps up to 221B he realised that it was music, from John’s upstairs room. It sounded familiar, but he was too exhausted to try to identify it. Would this become a habit now. Being greeted by roaring music, making any conversation impossible? Was this John’s new tactic to avoid him?  
Well, he didn’t want to talk anyway. What he needed was a shower, bedroom, doors closed, world locked out, mind-palace. As always. It was only to hope that John would keep it at least a bit quiet. Sherlock wasn’t able to stand any more input today.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/qnkuBUAwfe0)
> 
> * * *
> 
> The facts Sherlock mentions about Battersea Power Station are actually true. Although I took a little bit of artistic freedom, most of it is historically correct. 
> 
> The first stones to build Battersea Power Station were set in 1929 and it was in use until 1983. When it was shut down, it was immediately given a Grade II listed status (for buildings of special historic interest with as a main goal to preserve them).  
> Considering the timeline of BBC Sherlock this story is set in spring 2014. At that point a decision was already made (in 2010) to undertake immense renovations and reconstructions to transform the former power station into a posh and modern facility housing apartments, offices, gastronomy and commercial areas. In 2012 investors and willing parties for financial support were found and architects could provide first designs. A year later, very slowly, the work on the site began by starting to strip and “clean” the (by now) ruins. However, there were no definite plans yet and the building remained empty until 2014. Reconstructions would start only the following year. 
> 
> sources about the history of Battersea Power Station:  
> <https://www.wmf.org/project/battersea-power-station>  
> [https://batterseapowerstation.co.uk/about/heritage-history?filter=2012](https://batterseapowerstation.co.uk/about/heritage-history?filter=201w)  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battersea_Power_Station>  
> 
> 
> **and here are some visuals of the place:**
> 
>   
>    
> [This is the pic that made me fall in love with the idea of Sherlock dancing at Battersea (source)](https://memoirsofametrogirl.com/2012/11/29/battersea-power-station-look-inside-before-the-developers-move-in/)
> 
> [Also this one. Quality a bit better (source)](https://www.architectsjournal.co.uk/searcharticles?keywords=Battersea+Power+Station)
> 
> Actually though, both pics above are not quite realistic for the period Sherlock uses the site, because the walls are already demolished.
> 
> [Here's an impression with walls still intact. Although a bit dark-ish (because night) you get an impression of the space (source)](https://www.flickr.com/photos/liamch/4203102911)
> 
> [This are side areas where Sherlock hides his equipment and the shadows Sherlock emerges from (source)](http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/shared/spl/hi/picture_gallery/05/uk_battersea_power_station/html/2.stm)
> 
>   
>    
> [Even the fences Sherlock has to sneak through are there (source)](https://www.buildington.co.uk/london-sw8/188-kirtling-street/battersea-power-station/id/497)
> 
> [Of course Sherlock couldn't care less about fences. Ridiculous! (source)](https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Attraction_Review-g186338-d548648-Reviews-Battersea_Power_Station-London_England.html#photos;aggregationId=101&albumid=101&filter=7&ff=18213263)
> 
> * * *
> 
> You can’t imagine my delight when I stumbled over this by accident during my (insanely excessive) research for abandoned buildings in the London area for Sherlock to dance in. One of the ridiculously-happy-research-moments for this fic. I really think I deserve them as compensation for the horribly-frustrated-screaming-moods the idiot boys put me through while writing this fic. They really don’t listen to me. I swear!! Not. My. Fault. All complaints can be sent to the Consulting Husbands, 221B Baker Street, London.


	3. My Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With these thoughts in mind John dozed off, still fully clothed, lying on his belly across his bed on top of the duvet. He wasn’t aware of the music still droning on from his phone. At some point he had set the song on repeat, trying to listen to it more closely. He didn’t get the chance to turn it off though, that’s why the song kept blurting over and over until the battery of his phone died. The quiet surrounded him like a blanket and carried him deeper into his sleep. Drained by his own emotions, oblivious to his surroundings, not caring about anything. Rejecting the new morning and the day to come. Not wanting them to be an option, let alone an unstoppable reality, because he had to face the man who was causing all his misery.
> 
> That was also the reason why John didn’t notice any of the incoming texts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all:  
> Big squishy cuddles for everyone who's reading and following "my" idiots on their journey, for leaving kudos and/or comments, for bookmarking. It means a lot to me and makes my little writer's heart jump for joy!!! 💜
> 
> Second:  
> The songs I chose for this fic are very various in style. They change according to the mood of the idiot boys, so hang in there if not all songs are to your own liking.
> 
> Third:  
> Never ever doubt the "Happy Ending" tag.
> 
> and as always:  
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

The moment John Watson slumped into the back seat of the cab he threw the door shut behind him and closed his eyes, leaning his head on the backrest.

“Go! Please!” he said impatiently to the cabby. When he realised that the car wasn’t moving he forced himself to open his eyes only to find a gum chewing cabby gazing back at him, one arm thrown over his backrest, looking bemused.

“Wha’ happened to you there, mate? Seen a ghost?” the cabby asked grinning, still munching irritatingly squishy on his gum. 

“Sort of.” John answered. “Doesn’t matter! Still, would you go now? Please!” he added. 

“Well…. I still have to know where ya wanna go, right?” the cabby kept teasing. 

“Home!” John blurted out, but when he watched the eyebrows of the cabby rising to his hairline, he realised that this information may not be sufficient enough. “Baker Street. 221 Baker Street, please.” John sighed defeated and sacked deeper into the seat. 

“Baker Street?” the cabby looked delighted, then suspicious. “Hey, don’ I know ya? Aren’ ya that guy from the papers? Would know yo’ face everywhere, mate! I DID like your blog though, ya know?! I’m a great fan!” The cabby pointed gleefully with his stubby finger in John’s general direction. “Ya should be used to ghosts, innit? With all that dead and not dead pal of yours...” He made ghostly noises wavering his hands in the air to underline his apparently meant to be spooky appearance. He was giggling to himself as if he had made a very clever joke, pleased with himself. 

John refused to react to any of this, too tired of all that, too confused at the moment. He tried to shut the cabby down by glaring at him, clenching his jaw and hissing at him: “If you’re not bloody going RIGHT NOW, I’ll make you see some ghosts yourself, _mate_!”

After one last stare he hoped was threatening enough the cabby shut up. John closed his eyes again and wished himself to be far far away, anywhere but here.

When he had followed Sherlock not even two hours ago he hadn’t known what to expect. He had known he couldn’t let Sherlock just flee, again. He knew that whatever this was, it was important. First, their argument - or was it even an argument? Or rather a misunderstanding? _'Not the first one though',_ John thought. And then Sherlock bloody Holmes who had to return early - today of all days - and spy on his embarrassing breakdown. 

_'That look in Sherlock’s eyes',_ John still shuddered with that thought.

He had wondered where Sherlock would go to. He had followed at a distance, randomly through the streets, hadn’t dared to get any closer to Sherlock as he had looked so lost in himself. A dark cloud seemed to hang over Sherlock's head, threatening anybody who'd be reckless enough to approach him.

John had expected to maybe discover a new one of Sherlock’s boltholes. Or maybe that Sherlock would retreat to the morgue to torture some poor corpse in frustration. For a shocking moment he had even feared to witness Sherlock buying drugs from some sort of old-buddy-dealer. 

But when Battersea station had come into sight he had nearly faltered in his steps, some very unpleasant memories surfacing. He had wondered what this could mean, what to expect, what could be the purpose of revisiting this place? Sherlock hadn’t been aiming in this direction randomly, he had been heading for this location on purpose. John could think of exactly one reason to come here. But why walk then?

_'A meeting with Mycroft'_ , John had concluded. ' _Wouldn’t have expected that. But well, big brother always knows everything and meddles with our lives. Well…. Sherlock’s life',_ John had corrected his own thoughts.

Still curious, he had followed Sherlock through the hidden hole in the fence. He had been lost for a moment in that big building, not able to make out where Sherlock had gone. He had expected him crowded in some dark corner by Mycroft.

But when he had been startled by loud music filling the air, he had turned and had seen Sherlock in the middle of the room; dressed totally non-typical-Sherlock, but undeniably him. Sherlock had been swaying on his feet. John couldn’t avoid taking in the sight before him. Sherlock had appeared small and lost and lonely. His shoulders sagged, face pale, the otherwise posh and deliberately styled curls in disarray, eyes closed.

He had seemed not to be aware of John’s presence. 

John had felt punched in the gut at this sight. Sherlock had looked miserable and drained. It reminded John of Shezza. For a short moment he had been worried he was too late, that Sherlock had already been back on drugs. He had been horrified at the thought that Sherlock had shot up in the span of time that John had lost sight of him, that Sherlock would overdose and collapse in front of John’s very eyes. 

If John had led Sherlock to this, it would be his fault - again. This time John would never be able to forgive himself.

He had been tempted to shout out to Sherlock and he nearly had when suddenly the impression had changed unexpectedly into something different altogether; when suddenly… Sherlock had started to dance. 

Suddenly the wrecked person from just a moment ago had been replaced by a creature of strength, of capability, of grace, of beauty…

_'Sherlock dances? Really? Sherlock?'_ John wondered gobsmacked _._ But there he was. John blinked in confusion. He had expected anything but this. _'Sherlock dances!_ _And not just anything; he fucking dances like a fucking professional!'_

It seemed to John as if Sherlock was pouring all his soul into this dance. It was a thing of beauty to watch him; it was haunting and shattering; it was mesmerizing and touching. John couldn’t process it. _'How? How was Sherlock doing this? How was he even able to dance like this? This was on a level not even Sherlock Holmes could accomplish just so.'_

Thinking back to that moment, still sitting in the cab, the buildings and sights of London rushing past the windows unnoticed, John had to shake his head, not trusting his own impressions and memories. 

_'And what about that music? Sherlock? This kind of music? Can’t be! Sherlock doesn’t like that sort of music. Sherlock doesn’t even KNOW that sort of music, for fucks sake!'_ John’s mind went absolutely blank in perplexity. 

Only fragments of the melody and snippets of the lyrics had been seeping through into his consciousness. 

_“I think I’m falling”_ was the only thing resonating in his mind over and over again, round and round like a turning wheel. 

_'Falling… why always falling? Why does it ALWAYS have to come back to that?'_ By now he felt haunted by the mere word alone. It was just a word, goddamnit. So many meanings, such different meanings, not only painful connotations. A falling leaf in autumn, dancing in the wind, showing its bright colours in the sunlight? Hurtful now, because it was falling. Snow falling in the winter; snowflakes slowly floating to the ground to softly cover the plants? Hurtful now, because they were bloody _falling_! One could also fall in love, although that was mostly hurtful in itself. Falling. The fall. Following him everywhere. In the end, he was always coming back to it in his mind. Like the never-ending circle of the come and go of the seasons, year after year inevitably withstanding the storms of autumn... of the fall. No escape.

_'Never anything new under the sun; wasn’t that a thing Sherlock kept saying?'_ John thought defeated. _'Well all this sure as hell is fucking new! At least for me_ , _bloody idiot that I am',_ John thought angrily.

He had stared eyes wide, not able to tear his gaze away from this unfamiliar creature taking over the whole space. This ethereal being, whom he could in no way align with his flatmate, whom he thought to know better than anyone. But apparently not. 

It seemed as if he didn’t know the man he had seen in there at all. How had Sherlock been able to hide something like this? Why had he hidden it in the first place? Why hadn’t he told John? 

It looked as if this was important to Sherlock, and this was definitely not an one-time occurrence, John could tell. It seemed that Sherlock was used to going there and that this was where Sherlock retreated to for some sort of processing. Apparently John was not worth sharing this with. Sherlock didn’t want him there, that much was obvious!

At Battersea, he had been hidden in the shades and had been glad about it, because he wouldn’t have known what would have shown on his face.

In the end he had totally lost it the moment Sherlock had spread his arms, letting himself fall, falling forwards. _'Falling. Nothing to catch him. No-one to catch him!'_ That moment John had turned, stumbling over his own feet, fled from that cursed place; rushing outside, trying to catch his breath he had hurried to get away.

Back at Baker Street John didn’t even know how he had ended lying face down on his bed, but he sure as hell wouldn’t get up any time soon! Neither had he bothered to get out of his coat or shoes nor to pick up anything edible or things like a phone charger.

The song he had heard at Battersea still lingered in his head; he knew that he knew it, but had been too dumbstruck to really recognise it. ' _I think I’m falling. Six feet down. Down to one last breath',_ it resonated in John’s mind like an annoying echo. Pictures of Sherlock running, rushing, turning like storm and thunder flashed through John’s memories. Sherlock a pained expression on his face, looking pale despite being obviously strained by this exercise and covered in sweat. Sherlock panting, out of breath.

_'One last breath…_. _That’s the one',_ John thought. It was on the same playlist as his personal coping-song after Sherlock’s….. disappearance - that's why he recognised it. He had avoided this one though; didn’t get any help out of it back then; only hurtful memories! _'Well, that hasn't changed one single bit it seems',_ John thought ruefully. But actually the album was good. He could have liked it.

Thinking about it he got curious. Why had Sherlock deliberately chosen this song? Or had it been random? What would be a reason to put it on repeat then? Plus it was about falling! That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? And surely not after witnessing John’s own fall-feeling-throwback! John still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock even knew this kind of music. He couldn’t wrap his mind around anything that had happened today.

Still lying on his belly John grabbed his phone and opened his music app. Scrolling through his playlists his thumb hesitantly hovered for a moment right above the one playlist called ‘Fucking Shit’ before finally tapping on it. He avoided looking when the list of songs appeared, scrolling blindly a bit down, knowing what would have awaited him at the very top of it.  
Only when he had made some progress down the list he could release the breath he was holding and take a look at the remaining songs. Finding the one he searched for, he pressed play, closed his eyes and concentrated on the lyrics. The longer he listened the bigger the lump grew in his throat. 

_'Shit. This is all utter shit',_ John thought. _'Stay with me now? I think I’m falling? You and me? Damn, Sherlock! Really?'_ John was horrified. What did Sherlock want to say with that? Did he even want to say anything? That’s not exactly what he said nearly three years ago. Back then it would have been exactly what John would have wanted him to say! But Sherlock didn’t! Why now then?  
_'I’m holding on to all I think is safe? Of course you do, you bastard'._ John was bitter. _'Silly John Watson; always reliable, always staying at your side! Always at your disposal? On your leash? Your pet after all? Arrogant prick!'_ John was angry but at the same time appalled by his own thoughts. Guilt creeping from his heart up to his throat until he felt nearly choked by it. _'The one to catch you when you’re falling? But I didn’t! I didn’t, can’t you see? How would I even have been able to? You didn’t tell me! Remember? I DIDN’T KNOW!'_ Although he was alone he was glad he had only yelled it in his mind. He wasn’t very keen on Mrs Hudson to come upstairs and look for him. He didn’t want anyone to be with him right now. He didn’t even want to be with himself in this moment.

Wavering between anger and guilt and disappointment and melancholy John punched the mattress with his fist, the one holding the phone even though the phone wasn’t the one he’d like to punch. But who was it he wanted to punch? Sherlock? Himself? Fate? Life in general? He heard the unspoken ‘punch me in the face’ quite often, but sometimes he would really like it not to be subtext.

He sighed deeply and buried his face back into the duvet. Wishing the day to pass and his mind to shut the fuck up, John let the music of his playlist just randomly wash over him. Trying not to feel anything, trying not to feel anything, trying not to think about anything. _'Let me be. Just let me be, but preferably not even that…'_ John couldn’t see the path anymore. What was the purpose of all this new-old life they were trying to create? Wasn’t everything meaningless if they went on as before? _‘Before’ hadn’t ended very well',_ John snorted bitterly.

That moment his thoughts stopped, as if someone had called him, mind coming back to life, awareness, surfacing. He listened. [That song](https://youtu.be/O-fyNgHdmLI). _'Oh my god... that song!'_ He had never listened to it attentively before…  
  
  


**_Hello my friend, we meet again_ **

**_It's been awhile, where should we begin?_ **

**_Feels like forever_ **

**_Within my heart are memories_ **

**_Of perfect love that you gave to me_ **

**_Oh, I remember_ **

**  
_  
_ ** _'Yeah… feels like forever',_ John tried to continue pitying himself. But there was a kind of feeling taking hold of him, spreading in his chest, he always tried to avoid. The warmth that crept through his veins was carrying memories of other days they’ve had together, the days that had been much happier than those he was cursed to relive lately. There had been smiles, there had been fun, there had been excitement, there had been trust, there had been … yes, love. There had been that special bond they’d shared. Whatever anyone liked to call it, for him and Sherlock there never had been the need to specify it. It just had been there. It just had been them! On that note… yes; it was kind of perfect love Sherlock had given him. But when and why has that changed? Had it changed?

**_When you are with me, I'm free_ **

**_I'm careless, I believe_ **

**_Above all the others we'll fly_ **

**_This brings tears to my eyes_ **

**_My sacrifice_ **

This was exactly it. This was how it used to be between them. This was what he had hoped for after the “Hello my friend, we meet again”-part. Careless, free - hadn’t that been the purpose of the whole damn jumping business? To eliminate all the danger, to live without fear again, to be free? This was what he wanted to feel like again, together with Sherlock, at Sherlock’s side, fly with him above all the others, invincible as team, as partners! The two of them against the rest of the world! 

How naive he had been, how stupid and foolish to expect that they could go back to how they had once been. He had hoped so desperately. It had been his only lifeline in times when he hadn't had any hope left. 

He had been foolishly happy during his time with Sherlock. It had been the best of times! 

**_We've seen our share of ups and downs_ **

**_Oh how quickly life can turn around_ **

**_In an instant_ **

**_It feels so good to reunite_ **

**_Within yourself and within your mind_ **

**_Let's find peace there_ ** **_  
  
  
_ **

John laughed bitterly. _'If anyone knew how quickly life could change, it is us! Dead - not dead!'_ With that thought a memory of Sherlock in that ridiculous disguise of a waiter flashed before John’s inner eye. It hadn’t felt good to reunite in that first moment. Initially, John had not been able to feel anything but betrayal and anger. Although, after letting it all settle a bit, that had changed quite quickly! John at least had tried to find peace with it. His only purpose had been to be back with Sherlock. But what about Sherlock? It didn’t seem as if Sherlock had found any peace at all as distanced as he had been lately, brusque, retreated. 

**_When you are with me, I'm free_ **

**_I'm careless, I believe_ **

**_Above all the others we'll fly_ **

**_This brings tears to my eyes_ **

**_My sacrifice_ **

**  
_  
_ **Still, this was true! John was happy when he was together with Sherlock! He’d like to feel reckless again together with Sherlock on cases, chases through London, giggling at crime scenes. He wanted to feel careless and free again, because who cares about decency anyway? 

There had always been so much comfort and camaraderie between them after solving a case. John had always marveled at Sherlock’s brilliance! 

He believed in Sherlock Holmes! He always had! But Sherlock wouldn’t let him, and that John didn’t understand. Didn’t Sherlock care anymore? Had John become a burden for Sherlock as he had always feared to be? Sherlock had always denied it, even though John never had seen the use of his own presence at that brilliant man's side. Sherlock had already known everything John could add to the observations anyway. So why bother? Maybe… maybe this was it. This was the moment John had always feared but expected. The moment Sherlock got bored of him. Sherlock denied it though, but John had always just been the idiot after all. Sherlock kept calling John his conductor of light. But what did that even mean? But who could tell about Sherlock Holmes? John couldn’t anymore. After today he realised that maybe he had never really known Sherlock after all.  
  
****

**_I just want to say hello again_ **

**_I just want to say hello again_ **

**  
_  
_ ** _'Please! Please, let me get to know you again! Please, it’s the only thing I want. Getting to know each other all over again. Saying hello again! Let's go back to the start, Sherlock. Doing it all over again. I would do many things differently! I would never let you down again…'_

**_When you are with me I'm free_ **

**_I'm careless, I believe_ **

**_Above all the others we'll fly_ **

**_This brings tears to my eyes  
  
_ **

**_  
_ ** Right now it wouldn’t be tears of happiness though. At this moment he felt empty, empty of everything; he had already cried too much. Feeling numb inside he was also getting indifferent. He was out of his depth. If he wouldn’t stay with Sherlock, if their friendship wouldn’t survive all this… what was he supposed to do? What purpose in life would he have left? What would he be useful for? Nobody could ever fill the emptiness, that the separation from Sherlock would no doubt leave within John’s heart and soul. Nobody could ever replace Sherlock. So what would be the use of a life without Sherlock anyway? How would he be able to carry on? He knew the answers to all of this and it scared him.  
  
  


**_Cause when you are with me I am free_ **

**_I'm careless, I believe_ **

**_Above all the others we'll fly_ **

**_This brings tears to my eyes_ **

**_My sacrifice, My sacrifice  
  
_ **

**** **_  
_ ** **_'_ ** _Please, let all this be just my imagination! Please, let us get through this! Please! It’s all I ask for!'_ John didn’t even know to whom he was pleading, but he felt the immense urge to beg to someone, something, whatever… as long as it would help! He was desperate, felt the path lock around his feet, the road becoming a river with only one destination. _  
  
  
_

**_I just want to say hello again_ **

**_I just want to say hello again  
  
_ **

**_  
_ ** _'Talk to me, Sherlock! Just talk to me! Don’t shut me out! Not again! I can’t stand that! I wouldn’t survive one more loss! Not if it would be you! Don’t you see?'_

**_My sacrifice.  
  
_ **

**_  
_ ** **_'_** _I_ _would do anything! I’m glad to play the fool… for you. I would offer up everything! Didn’t I already? This is my sacrifice, Sherlock! I committed my life to you and don’t regret any of it. Not anymore! Not after I lost you and got you back! Give us a chance! One more chance! Would you do that, Sherlock? Just for me?'_

  
With these thoughts in mind John dozed off, still fully clothed, lying on his belly across his bed on top of the duvet. He wasn’t aware of the music still droning on from his phone. At some point he had set the song on repeat, trying to listen to it more closely. He didn’t get the chance to turn it off though, that’s why the song kept blurting over and over until the battery of his phone died. The quiet surrounded him like a blanket and carried him deeper into his sleep. Drained by his own emotions, oblivious to his surroundings, not caring about anything. Rejecting the new morning and the day to come. Not wanting them to be an option, let alone an unstoppable reality, because he had to face the man who was causing all his misery.

That was also the reason why John didn’t notice any of the incoming texts 

**received 22:57pm** **  
** **John. SH**

**received 23:06pm** **  
** **JOHN. SH**

**received 23:16pm** **  
** **John, turn that off! SH**

**received 23:31pm** **  
** **JOHN! THIS IS UNBEARABLE! SH**

**received 00:08am** **  
** **If you want to annoy me you succeeded! SH**

**received 00:12am** **  
** **Just so you know! SH**

**received 00:18am** **  
** **Means you won. You can turn it off now. SH**

**received 00:32am** **  
** **NOW! SH**

**received 00:58am** **  
** **A bit longer and I have to come up! SH**

**received 01:22am** **  
** **Do you want me to beg? SH**

**received 01:29am** **  
** **Please. SH**

**received 01:40am** **  
** **John, I said please! John! SH**

**received 02:02am** **  
** **John, I don’t know what this is. I don’t understand. What do you want me to do? SH**

**received 02:21am** **  
** **Probably you’re not even awake anymore.**

**received 02:49am** **  
** **John. I don’t like this. Not the music. Not only the music. The thing. With us. What is this? SH**

**received 02:57am** **  
** **Shouldn’t have send this. Forget it. SH**

**received 03:15am** **  
** **Good night, John. SH**

**  
** The text alert couldn’t compete with the music, probably wouldn’t have woken him anyway and in the end even the screen went black from lack of energy; the music stopped, the messages remained unseen.

The next morning John awoke with a groan. He remembered a thing his father had always said… that sleeping with shoes still on would cause a terrible morning after. The shoes themselves probably weren’t to blame for the bad outcome of such nights but more the circumstances disabling him to take them off in the first place. He had an inkling what was the cause of his father's headaches in the morning though. Shoes still on his feet meant bottle still in his hands… The causality of the shoe phenomenon would probably animate Sherlock to do further studies to be sure of the cause-effect relationship. 

John chuckled a bit at that thought, imagining Sherlock very seriously developing spreadsheets on that topic, before his own very verifiable existent headache and the thought of Sherlock nipped his good mood in the bud.

_'Shit, no way to avoid this situation',_ John pulled a face. It wouldn’t be very pleasant. After the day yesterday the mood would surely not be very relaxed. Maybe if he stayed in his room pretending to sleep until Sherlock leaves the flat? At any point he would leave, wouldn’t he? _'Probably Sherlock would know that I’m awake anyway, bloody genius that he is'._ John tried to get around the inevitable confrontation, but his bladder, his stomach and his dead phone told him otherwise.  
So he hesitantly made his way downstairs, hoping to make his way to the bathroom unseen. But no such luck.

“Slept well?” came a snarky remark from the kitchen just as he tried to sneak through the hallway. He stopped and slowly made his way into the kitchen only to find Sherlock hunched over his microscope pretending to be very invested in his current experiment. He wasn't looking up at John.

“Well...not really. But thanks for asking!” John replied tentatively, not knowing what to do, his bladder persistently asking for attention.

“What a surprise!” The sarcasm was dripping from Sherlock’s voice.

Wondering what Sherlock was aiming for John didn’t know better than to ask: “You okay?”

“Depends.” was Sherlock’s only comment. 

John waited a moment if there would be any more, but when nothing came he turned and more murmured than said out loud: “Well, at least you’re talking to me again.”

“Which can’t be said about everyone!” Sherlock remarked without so much as to bat an eyelid.

John stopped in his tracks and turned back to Sherlock again. He was wary about replying or not and hated himself for it. Was this the moment when everything he dwelled on last night was coming true? Sherlock cold, aloof, not letting him in on his thoughts, rejecting, even downright… mean to him? All of Sherlock’s posture made unmistakably clear that for him the conversation was finished. So John flinched and didn't dare to broach the topic. He hated himself for his own cowardice.

With a little sigh, which John hoped wouldn’t be heard by Sherlock, he finally made his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. 

After going through his morning routine, he was finally under the spray of the shower, not moving at all he reveled in the warm water running over his tired body. Big drops trickling from his hair down his face onto his pecs, washing away the aches of the night.  
The moment he left the bathroom with just a towel slung around his hips, yesterday's clothes bundled in his arms, he heard Sherlock’s steps on the hallway stairs. John closed his eyes. _'Not again. This was becoming annoying! We can’t avoid each other forever! Why is he running away? So is this truly it? Sherlock really doesn’t want me here anymore? Is he running from ME?'_

Not able to take any more, in the middle of the sitting room floor, John slumped down on his knees.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/O-fyNgHdmLI)


	4. Stockholm Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He moved faster and faster still, breathing heavily, no orientation left. His hair and his body were wet with sweat, curls flying, whirling around his head. The air brushed his damp skin, numbing it, cool enough to let the fire die down. Hiding it underneath the remains of the burned, under grey ash. Ash of the colour of greying hair. He knew ash. Ash was safe. At least he could pretend.
> 
> _'What I can't see I can’t observe. What I can’t observe I cannot deduce. I don't need to think about it. It's not important. It's irrelevant.'_
> 
> When he felt dizzy enough to see the world turning without seeing anything at all, he ended his pirouettes by standing with his legs spread, feet wide apart but secure on the ground, his arms resting reassuringly at his sides. His head held high and proud.
> 
> He felt a drop of sweat run down his temple, following a path next to his earlobe along his jaw and down his throat to pool in the small hollow above his collarbone. The slight tickling send a shiver down his spine, his skin being over-sensitive sending high-voltage through his synapses. He didn’t allow it to distract him. He had to be in charge, controlled, shielded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on the chapters are going to be a bit longer. And when I say a bit... well... I'm sorry? It was not within my power though, the boys just demanded a bit more space for drama. Sherlock in particular felt neglected in his role as World's Most Dramatic Drama Queen. What was I supposed to do? *shrug emoji*
> 
> As we're revisiting a part of the former chapter here, the song John listened to is linked again right at the start of the chapter. Just so that you're not confused... no, it was not a mistake... yes, it was intentional... yes, there will be another song later in the chapter. So to be clear: TWO LINKS TO SONGS IN THIS CHAPTER.
> 
> *** link to song(s) within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

Sherlock was lying in his bed and gritting his teeth.

[This. Was. Unbearable.](https://youtu.be/O-fyNgHdmLI)

As always after one of his sessions, as he liked to call them, he had retreated to his bedroom as fast as possible. Following a quick shower he had paced his bedroom, muscles sore, body tired, but mind still whirling. And now this. Normally Sherlock wouldn’t sleep at this time of the day anyway, but how dare John make such a fuss? Didn’t he know that this was extremely annoying? After all, there are people who can’t think with such a noise. And Sherlock needed to THINK!

Sulking, throwing his arms into the air, curls bouncing around his angrily shaking head, he gestured for anyone who'd like to appreciate his dramatics. But it was wasted on his empty bedroom and actually he was happy that there was no-one around!

Still, he couldn’t stand this. Not knowing what to do about it he had grabbed the sides of his dressing gown, which had hung loosely from his shoulders after showering, to pull them closely around himself, wrapping himself tightly in it like in a cocoon and thrown himself dramatically onto the bed.

That’s where he found himself now gazing at the ceiling as if he could magically stare down John’s phone or even better John himself.

What was John thinking? Was he even thinking at all? Which Sherlock doubted anyway from time to time! What could _possibly_ be the reason to delight the whole neighborhood with your angry choice of coping music? Hadn’t Sherlock fled from this in the first place? How very nice to come back to exactly the same mess as before. Stupid.

Sherlock knew that he was fooling himself. Nonetheless he was getting more and more annoyed, because his escape hadn’t changed a thing. Sherlock was as confused as before, John was still drowning himself in music. John who hadn't even bothered trying to stop Sherlock from leaving after the shocking moment in the sitting room earlier in the day. Not that Sherlock would have let John stop him anyway, but still. God, that moment felt like ages ago.

Additionally, wasn't it quite a hilarious coincidence that on top of everything even the music seemed to play tricks on him. Everything and everyone seemed to conspire against him. Of course he knew the song John was playing upstairs! After all, it was from the same album as the song Sherlock had danced to not mere hours ago. Even if his brother kept insisting that the universe was rarely so lazy; this was definitely proving him wrong! At least one satisfying thing about this situation.

But why would John need this volume and why the hell would he need to listen to the same song on repeat? This had to stop! Immediately! But how? Staring down the phone hadn’t worked, but Sherlock absolutely wouldn’t give in and go upstairs to beg for it! Never!

So he had to make use of the only other method on hand - quite literally. He grabbed his phone and hammered his fingertips rapidly against the screen.

**send 22:57pm  
** **John. SH**

No answer. John was avoiding him. That was to be expected. Okay, as enduring it was no option he had to try again.

**send 23:06pm  
** **JOHN. SH**

Well, yelling via text message may not have been one of his most brilliant ideas. Who could blame him suffering like this? After all, if John hadn't looked at his phone the first time, the yelling wouldn’t have any effect either. Annoying that! At this moment he would very much prefer yelling at John face to face! Or? No! Better not!

_'Then I’ll just have to keep pestering him with messages! He has to pick up his phone at some point!'_ Sherlock was sure about the fact that John would never turn off the message alert out of fear to miss anything important, for example Harry relapsing or hedging to cover someone else's sick leave at the surgery. _'He can’t pretend much longer not to hear it.'_

**send 23:16pm  
** **John, turn that off! SH**

After a while there was still no reaction from John and Sherlock slapped his hands over his ears. He scrunched his eyes shut as if that would help in any way. Of course, it didn't. It was maddening! Especially as he wasn’t able to blend out neither the music nor the lyrics which - naturally - he knew by heart. It wasn’t the first time he listened to this album after all. How else would he have known about the other song. But this one though wasn’t any better! Especially not now!

_'One more attempt then. And maybe I should give the yelling another try.'_

**send 23:31pm  
** **JOHN! THIS IS UNBEARABLE! SH**

When there was not as much as a single little sign of life coming from the upstairs room, Sherlock sighed in defeat. Why would John do this? He had never done something like this before. Sure thing, John loved his music. He even was a big fan of that daft ancient beatle-band with their abhorrently sweet lovey dovey songs. _'And they called themselves a rock band! Ha!'_ Sherlock snorted. 

But this wasn’t the problem now. He couldn't care less about John's preferences as his only concern and focus had to be how to stop this and to figure out what 'this' was and why 'this' happened at all! Probably it had to do with the song itself in some way! It must have if John was listening to the same song over and over again! _'What is most likely the motivation for boring oneself by the idiocy of repetitive consummation of the same mental stimulus? Not to say: In. Endless. Loop! Obvious: sentiment! Tedious!'_

Trying to figure out all of the why’s Sherlock shifted effortlessly from sulking-mode into mind-palace-mode, released his ears and steepled his fingers under his chin, upper arms resting on his chest while he was still lying on his back. His gaze went from fiercely staring to abstractedly distant in a blink.

The lyrics kept whirling in his mind, but now he was able to observe them from afar. The words appeared on paper snippets hovering in front of his eyes, as if they only waited to be picked out of the air to be analyzed.

He looked at them for a while, considered, plunged forward to pick some of them before they would float away and examined them thoroughly. He tried to deduce the meaning behind the words, but he had never been good at that. Sentiment. All of it.

John had always been his people-translator. Sherlock wasn't any good at this without John! But he could hardly ask John to deduce himself! What good would that do? Normally, John was very down-to-earth and a realistic and honest person, but not so very much honest about himself!

So it seems that he had to rely on his own techniques. He just had to assume that he knew John well enough by now. He did, didn't he? He knew that man better than he had known any other person in his life before! Never in his life had he spent more time thinking about someone than he had about John! He could do this!

_'Right, back to the beginning then!'_ Sherlock decided together with his mind-palace-self and once he had set his mind on a task, he devoted himself completely to it. He picked the first snippet out of the air and focused on it. _'The game is on!'_

'Hello my friend we meet again'... _'Friend'_ , Sherlock spat out in his mind palace as if the word itself tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no friends! He only ever had a John, but that was so much more than just a ...friend! But then, was this… assessment… mutual? What even was _he_ to _John_ ? They had been colleagues, they had been partners even if only in a professional way, they had been best friends; Sherlock had even been a best man for John - although he didn’t like to think about that part! But... when John said friend, did he mean _that_ kind of friend - or not? If it would be a best-friends-thing as in the past, there would most likely be more expression of sentiment - as far as Sherlock knew about it at least. He could still see John sitting at his kitchen table and hear him say: “Of course, Sherlock! Of course you are my best... friend!”

But in a context like this, it sounded more a … _'oh, nice to meet you! Long time no see, how are the wife and kids?'_ Sherlock mock-muttered in his mind, pulling a disgusted face. In _this_ context it certainly meant friend in the worst way! Sherlock knew well enough what damage people could do, who pretended to be _this_ kind of friend. So, this phrase definitely belonged on the same shelf in his mind palace as the moments of John calling him ‘mate’. Appalling. Hurtful.

Ripped out of his mind-palace Sherlock groaned. He couldn’t think with all that noise! Usually, this didn't happen when he was in his mind-palace. Nothing could distract him there... nothing but John. _'Oh, right, well …'_ Finding himself still holding his phone pressed between his hand palms, Sherlock hurried to punch in a new message.

**send 00:08am  
** **If you want to annoy me you succeeded! SH**

Surely now John had to be satisfied. As this was probably his goal after all. Sherlock would never give in to this game, that much was certain!

**send 00:12am  
** **Just so you know! SH**

Still no message from the man upstairs. Apparently this wasn’t enough. After all, John has always been an idiot. One always had to spell out everything for him to finally get it. Annoying!

**send 00:18am  
** **Means you won. You can turn it off now. SH**

It can’t take long now and no need to wait for it. Better make good use of the time he couldn’t sleep anyway and try to concentrate on the task on hand.

'Oh I remember'... _'See? That’s what I mean!_ _Missing the good old times, John? Being… mates?'_ Sherlock thought bitterly. That was exactly what Sherlock was afraid of - forget everything, pretend nothing had happened, carry on as usual! How very convenient! _'And it had been such nice times, isn’t that right John? Always the romantic. But these aren’t the good old times any more. Get used to it!'_

Growling, Sherlock slipped back into reality. Still music, still same song! Sherlock suppressed the urge to cry out in frustration.

**send 00:32am  
** **NOW! SH**

He had to concentrate. He could do this! Trying to calm down his breathing Sherlock slipped mentally back into his pose.

'When you are with me I’m free, I’m careless, I believe'... _'Good old times, indeed then.'_ Sherlock knew John had enjoyed the carelessness of their life in the early days! The rush of adrenaline had been exactly what John had craved and what had appealed to him about an acquaintance with Sherlock in the first place. It wasn’t far fetched that John had experienced it as freedom compared to his dull little bed sit and his pedestrian little life after Afghanistan! _'Had been fun. Fun… yes, that'd be something you'd call it…'_

_'I believe? Do you? In what? You believed in me… once.'_ A weird image flashed into his mind… John standing in front of him, hands stemmed on his hips, looking outrageous, different, long hair slicked back… different but still very much himself. This John’s saying - no, more like spatting: “Because you’re a liar. You lie all the time. It’s like your mission.” The moment the vision blurred Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of it. _'Memory? Couldn’t be... John had never looked like that! Premonition? Maybe. If you consider that it is nothing more than a movement of the web, attenuating to every strand of quivering data, calculating the future as inevitable as mathematics... maybe this was just what it all would lead to in the end.'_ His worst fear crept up on him and made him shiver. John turning his back on him, mistrusting him… the one person who had said 'I know you're real' when everyone else had fallen for Moriarty's mind games… the one person who had said 'You could' when Sherlock had convinced everyone else that he was fake… the one person who mattered. He couldn’t allow this to happen! 

He tried to push back this train of thought. This wasn’t part of the plan. Imagining things that weren’t real wouldn’t bring him any step closer to the solution of this problem. Which was still very much present, as he now noticed.

Pride be damned, if John wouldn’t give in Sherlock would just storm into his room and rip that phone out of his hand. Maybe if he crashed it against the living room wall it would make a nice new pattern located between skull and smiley face. They were getting boring after all, now that he wasn’t allowed to shoot them any more!

**send 00:58am  
** **A bit longer and I have to come up! SH**

To escape this hell as fast as possible Sherlock directly retreated back into the halls of the one place he was completely in charge of. This was his sanctum, his refuge, his well organised chaos. He always immediately ended up entering the room he had created to store his John memories. He threw open the wing doors, looking around desperately to find anything that would hold the answer to all these new questions, when the paper snippets started whirling in front of him again.

'It feels so good to reunite' … Sherlock could only huff thinking of this. Yes, that’s what he had hoped for when he came back to London and tried to find a way to face John for the first time after two years of misery! And what did he get instead? A John Watson who had ‘moved on’! Could it have been any worse? Could John have made it any more obvious how 'good' it felt for him to 'reunite'? He had made it pretty clear what he had thought of Sherlock’s return! Sherlock could still vividly remember the ache of his sore back the moment John Watson had pushed him on the ground in the middle of the Landmark’s. _'Had John honestly felt good about anything at their reunion? Lucky him then!'_ Despite everything Sherlock had hoped for which he knew had been nothing more than wishful thinking, he had never expected that it would be quite this dreadful. John had been so uninterested in all of Sherlock’s efforts - he had never asked, had never wanted to know - really know - about the why’s and how’s. He only ever wanted to go back in time. As if that were even possible. _'In reality, there aren’t things like that ridiculous blue police thingy to travel in time with like that one from your favourite daft series! We don't actually live in a silly series… sorry to disappoint you, John!'_ Sherlock thought sourly. Even his multiple apologies hadn’t changed a thing. And John had to know by now how much they meant offered by Sherlock, how difficult these things were for him. But that’s such a typical John-thing. He insists on social niceties, as if the world’s well being depends on them. Absolutely pointless.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Maybe that was it. Maybe this would work.

**send 01:22am  
** **Do you want me to beg? SH**

So. There. He said it.

Sherlock lay on his bed, wiggling his feet in distress, fiddling nervously with his phone. He knew John. This had to work. John liked it when Sherlock behaved well. That always made him smile. John tried to hide it but Sherlock knew it anyway. And especially after nasty arguments like today's… well, yesterday's by now… which had caused all of the current trouble. This must be it. Sherlock being nice ended most of their conflicts. It always caught John off guard. But didn’t that actually say a lot about what John Watson was thinking of him? Did he still not expect Sherlock to be able to be nice? When the only reason Sherlock gave any effort to it at all, was only ever John? Did he still not know Sherlock well enough to know that he hated to spell it out? _'But if it’s that what it takes…'_

**send 01:29am  
** **Please. SH**

Tapping impatiently with his thumb on the side of his phone he waited for a response. He would wait. At any point now this had to work. How did John not get sick of that song yet? More importantly, Sherlock was begging him to stop! Sherlock never begged! Well… not true, but he wouldn’t allow his memories to drift back to filthy dark cells and ropes slung tight around his wrists; to whips cracking in the air and a pang of pain each time the skin on his back had been torn apart. But most of all he didn’t allow himself, not even in his memories, to endure again the pain it had caused to keep his secret safe even though the man he had wanted to protect had been the only thing on his mind, for months, for years, and it had taken all his strength not to shout out John's name in despair… And now this! It took Sherlock all of his will power to fight back from the depth of the dark. He had closed that chapter of his life as good as possible. It would never be deletable, but he tried hard not to dwell on it. Now he had to deal with the demons of his present.

**send 01:40am  
** **John, I said please! John! SH**

Twice. He had begged twice now. Sherlock should be disgusted by himself. Whereas John should appreciate it... at least a bit. But apparently this didn’t work either. And he was still not sure he understood any of 'this'. Was he losing his ability to deduce? Or was this just John? He has always been the most interesting puzzle, but at the moment Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to solve it. On the other hand, he couldn’t avoid it either - the urge to understand was stitched into his genes and was the substance of the neurons firing in his brain. _'It just sort of... happens, really.'_ He thought. _'It is like a… reflex. I can’t stop it.'_ And with it the room around him changed shape, shelves full of memories appeared, paper snippets floating through the air.

'We've seen our share of ups and downs… Oh how quickly life can turn around'... _'Oh, yes_ . _'_ As if Sherlock wouldn’t know.

One moment you wonder what purpose life still held for you - the next moment there’s a John Watson standing in the middle of your lab. One moment you're telling the man sitting across from you (and most of all yourself) that you're married to your work - the next moment you regret the words tremendously when you see the disappointment they cause in that man's beautiful eyes. One moment you finally dare to ask said man out to spend some time together and have fun - the next moment he brings one of these annoying women to your date. One moment he’s jealous of The Woman - the next moment you hear him say “I’m not gay”. One moment you are on the height of your game - the next moment you’re falling harder than you would have ever expected. One moment the thought of a certain man keeps you alive through the darkest hells - the next moment the sight of the very same man is throwing you into the darkest hells of them all. One moment you think you have lost him forever - the next moment he’s back in your home and your life…

_'Only to lose him again. To lose him over and over again! When will this stop? It has to stop!'_ How can John not know that Sherlock couldn’t stand this any longer? How could John not see how this was tearing Sherlock apart? He didn’t know what to do anymore… as if he ever actually had...

Sighing, he grabbed his phone once more. Maybe ask the man himself after all...

**send 02:02am  
** **John, I don’t know what this is. I don’t understand. What do you want me to do? SH**

As all the times before, there was no answer. If he was honest, he hadn't even expected one anymore. But it had been worth a try. By now the realities began to blur into one another, his mind no longer able to hold on to the rapid switch of the two layers of his consciousness...

'Within yourself and within your mind, let’s find peace there.'... This next snippet which Sherlock grabbed out of the air seemed to confirm his fears. _'Ha!'_ Sherlock wasn't sure anymore if his hollow laughter had been voiced out loud. _As if that was even possible. Right John… just don’t make a fuss about all of it? Just keep it all nice and quiet and don’t think about it any longer? Don’t let it seep into our silly little life? What the fuck, John?'_ Sherlock startled himself with the cursing. _'But damn_ … _'_ If everything was that easy for John, what was it all about then? And the tears he had seen? And all this noise? Sherlock was getting furious! Why couldn’t life just leave him alone? And people! All the people, every single one of them! He had to tell John that he wanted to be left alone. John should stop bothering him with this nonsense… But...

**send 02:21am  
** **Probably you’re not even awake anymore.**

Sherlock was rubbing his eyes. This was really getting to him. This was not what he had planned for. His mind should have slowed down by now. He should have been able to sort his thoughts by now. He should have been working on storing away his sentiments. He should have been preparing to face the next day, to get through it, to stay at distance, not to let John come to close. Dangerous. 

Not really realising where he was any longer - home, mind palace, wherever, doesn’t matter - and noticing nothing but music and dizziness, he drifted off again.

'Above all the others we'll fly… This brings tears to my eyes'... _'Ahhh, here are the tears.'_ But Sherlock still didn’t understand. _'I should put that on a t-shirt',_ Sherlock thought irritated by himself. Yes, John missed the old times. And yes, John had cried. And yes, John was sentimental. He always was. But this was a bit too much, even for John, wasn’t it? So, what could probably cause these tears? Was it truly just melancholy about the old days John craved for so desperately? Or was it rather something like disappointment about the developments of their shared life? Maybe even regrets about having come back to 221B in the first place and expecting their former life to continue unchanged. Presumably the tears were an expression of how much John was already resigned to the failure of any prospect of improvement! Most likely it was a combination of all of it. From John’s point of view there was nothing desirable left in this way of life, so it seemed. But why... why was he still here? Why would he make them both endure this?

Sherlock was tired, really really tired… and not so much from sleep deprivation or physical exhaustion. No, he was mentally and emotionally drained.

**send 02:49am  
** **John. I don’t like this. Not the music. Not only the music. The thing. With us. What is this? SH**

_'What is this? What is this? I don’t know! And I hate not knowing! Tell me John!'_

'I just want to say hello again'... Right. _'That’s all? That’s all you want now? Say hello? What does that even mean? Have a nice chat? Don't you remember the last time? My last attempt to do so? Wasn't received very well by you. Why would you want that now? Avoid difficult topics the way you have done back then? On that bench, when you evaded talking about Sholto… still wonder about that, about him. We don’t have to share our lives for that, do we? We could each live our life, not bothering each other, not torturing each other! If it’s all that exhausting, maybe we should make it easier for the both of us! If that’s what you want, I won’t stand in your way … again…'_ Sherlock felt himself tense. Immediately regretting his last text. Stupid him, he got carried away. Why did he always let that happen? Saying foolish things when sentiment was trying to take over. He really REALLY shouldn’t get involved. Never again.

**send 02:57am  
** **Shouldn’t have send this. Forget it. SH**

He fought with himself about looking at the last remaining piece of paper that floated in the air. He tried very hard not to care anymore, but he had never been one for unfinished business. _'Let’s get this over with then.'_

Written on the last snippet there were only two words. But these two words made the crumbling barriers of Sherlock’s self created prison, the vitreous walls of the glass house he found himself sitting in, build up again and skyrocket in lightning speed.

'My sacrifice'... _'Your sacrifice? YOUR sacrifice? How on earth could this be YOUR sacrifice?'_ Sherlock felt how anger boiled up in him and replaced annoyance and exhaustion. Didn’t John understand anything? Didn’t he see? All the sacrifices Sherlock was making for him, for John? How difficult it was for Sherlock to hold John at arm's length? How much it took him to protect John, to endure the fear that he might fail? Again!

The borders between mind-palace and reality being erased a long while ago, he couldn't differentiate anymore. Was this the song? Was this John? If John was of the opinion that this was HIS sacrifice, Sherlock would not make him suffer any longer! If it was such a burden for John to live with Sherlock, there’d certainly be a way to bring an end to his misery. Sherlock would make sure that John would get rid of him.

Sherlock opened his eyes, suddenly very much aware of his surroundings. He straightened his spine, sat up so quickly that he got dizzy for a moment and clenched his phone in his fist. _'Right then, time to bring an end to this_ . _'_ He tapped to send the first of the intended two messages.

**send 03:15am  
** **Good night, John. SH**

Then he sighed deeply, squared his shoulders and let himself sink back on the bed. He gazed up unfocused, not bothered by the still roaring music any longer. He hesitated for a moment before nodding to himself and slowly typing the next message. His thumb hovered above the luminescent screen but in the end he swallowed, closed his eyes and tapped the send button.

Afterwards Sherlock wasn’t aware of anything, letting the music simply wash over him. One of the rare moments he dreaded - his mind in a state of anarchy, doing unbearably much and absolutely nothing at the same time, overload and shutdown. This had only happened on very few occasions and Sherlock still remembered every single one of them. A pool, a roof and a wedding among them. Shooting up the maybe not just seven-percent-solution was the least painful part of it. Mycroft was still convinced that it had been an accidental overdose. Well, let the man have his illusions. However, hadn’t that been the main reason he had used - turning the uselessness of his brain into silence? This emptiness though wasn’t what he had been looking for in using, but it was nevertheless welcome right now. _'Good'_ , Sherlock thought. _'Easier this way. Brain always knows best!'_

He was nearly startled then when the music from the upstairs room stopped abruptly. Probably the battery of John’s phone had given up under the torture of continually being in use. This was quite a nice addition to the stillness of his mind. Sherlock sighed in relief and tapped out one last message before throwing his phone carelessly on the floor beside his bed.

**send 03:52am  
** **Finally. SH**

Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers of both hands against each other and lowered them until they lay softly on the lips. Gently tapping and sliding his fingertips back and forth over his lips Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus on the only task that needed to be dealt with at the moment - to shield and steel himself for the day to come.

Sherlock didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. He should have been used to it by now, but somehow this night was much more exhausting than usual. So his mood, when he finally got up, was more than petulant.

It wasn’t completely unexpected, then, that the morning conversation with John was irritating and frosty. Sherlock had to admit that he wasn’t entirely blameless. Anyway, it didn’t matter anymore. But he also couldn’t deny that it left a heavy weight on his chest, something that made it difficult to breathe. Even more so, when he made use of the opportunity of John showering to pick his coat and leave the flat.

He wasn’t in the least surprised when he was greeted by one of Mycroft’s shiny black cars the moment he opened the front door. He had texted after all. He hadn’t mentioned a time though, but it wouldn’t be beyond Mycroft to have a car on stand by at his front door all morning.

Sherlock opened the back door of the vehicle, checked quickly if he would be accompanied by his big brother, but when he found the back seat empty he was relieved. He’d rather delay this conversation, if only a bit. As long as he hadn’t spoken to Mycroft it wouldn’t be definite, even though Sherlock knew he wouldn’t back down… not this time.

Arriving at the Diogenes Club Sherlock directly made his way to Mycroft’s office, rushing down the stairs two steps at a time in such a hurry that it earned him many distasteful looks from the muted gentlemen populating the posh building.

He couldn’t care less today - actually ever, but today it was even more annoying. As if it mattered. The world wouldn’t stop turning even if he would cry out his frustration into the silent hallways. But it would get him a lecture from his stuck-up big brother and that wouldn’t be very helpful at the moment.

Without bothering to knock, Sherlock stormed through the door leading to Mycroft’s throne room, as Sherlock liked to call it.

As expected, he found his big brother residing behind his unduly pompous bureau. As always he was dressed in his impeccable bespoke three-piece suit, his never missing umbrella resting at his side. Apparently, he was already awaiting Sherlock.

Slightly turning in his office chair, Mycroft greeted him with a blasé: “Sherlock”, which was accompanied by the tight smile peculiar to Mycroft. Sherlock was never entirely certain what it was meant to express. Surely not joy to see him nor affection towards him, as these were sentiments Mycroft wasn’t capable of. So was it just social nicety? What a wasted effort then, especially between the both of them. Their relationship had been sorted a long time ago and did not include niceties in any form ever! Sometimes Mycroft was just irritating, or rather he always was, and that was probably exactly what he was aiming for.

Sherlock responded with his usual dismissing “Mycroft”. Two could play this game! And even if Sherlock was here to ask a favour, he wouldn’t give in to be any more amicable than needed, which meant not at all.

“So”, Mycroft began his brotherly speech by stretching the “o” to an unknown length. “To which extraordinary occasion do I owe the pleasure of your company at this, for you at least, uncommonly early hour of the day, brother mine?”

“For god’s sake, Mycroft. Do you ever even hear yourself speak?” Sherlock retorted, not in the slightest in the mood for his brother’s snootiness. “Do any of your minions even understand what you’re saying? Or do they follow your orders blindly because they’re afraid to disappear in the middle of the night if they don’t?”

Staring in disgust at his big brother Sherlock took a seat across from him at the other side of the table, flipping his coat dramatically while doing so.

“Goldfish. As I told you before. Goldfish are used to being fed and swimming around in their boring fish bowl without questioning it. They eat what you feed them and they even think you’re being nice when you flush them down the toilet.” Mycroft said, stretching his lips in a mask of a grin as cool and hard as steel. “So there’s that. Let’s get to more interesting business.”

With that Mycroft cleared his face of the unaccustomed attempt at smiling, stopped turning his chair from one side to the other and placed his elbows on the table clasping his hands.

“I understand this isn’t a courtesy call. That would be beyond you.” Mycroft said with a sarcastic smirk. “You’re here with a request then! So which favour do you expect me to accomplish for you this time? You are aware that you are running out of courtesies?” he continued, looking at Sherlock from under raised eyebrows.

“Of course I know, brother mine!” Sherlock says angrily. “As you make use of every opportunity to remind me!”

Taking a deep breath he steeled himself for what was about to come next.

“I take it that you are well aware of my... and John’s that is… somewhat … tense living situation lately.”

Mycroft just nodded silently, because of course he was aware of that. He wouldn’t leave his little brother unobserved at any moment after everything that he’d gone through.

Sherlock took it as a sign to carry on.

“And indeed I came here with a request. But you actually know that already.”

Sitting up a little straighter Sherlock continued: “I came to the conclusion that it would be in both our interests, John’s and mine, to part ways and live separate lives from now on. I’m sure this could be arranged without your help, but I need a guarantee that John will be safe and looked after. I’d prefer him to lead a comfortable life in which he wouldn’t need to miss anything. First of all, there would be a flat to be arranged. I assume that should be within your power. He will need a different job too, as he wouldn’t have any income without being my partner in The Work any more.”

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Anything beyond this will be his own responsibility I guess, because I don’t regard you as the most suitable person to make choices of a partner for a romantic relationship for him. We all know what it led to the last time you tried to walk that path. Not your most glorious moment … brother dear!” Sherlock snarled.

“So, you see, the favour I’m asking for isn’t even for myself and it is _all_ I’m asking for. The last favour I will ever ask of you.”, Sherlock finished with a sigh.

He lowered his eyes to his hands clasped in his lap and realised that he had been clenching them into the fabric of his not inexpensive trousers.

Mycroft stayed silent for quite a while and Sherlock didn’t dare look at him.

Finally Mycroft said quietly: “And did you discuss this decision with your dear doctor?” 

Sherlock even thought to hear a trace of affection in his brother’s voice. He raised his gaze to look at his brothers face.

“First of all, he isn’t MY dear doctor! He never was, as you are well aware; and second, I’m certain he’d agree to this arrangement without hesitation.” Sherlock pointed out stubbornly.

“May I ask what caused this sudden determination of yours?”, Mycroft dared to question.

“No, you may not!” Sherlock responded harshly without avoiding Mycroft’s look any longer. “So, can you arrange it or not?”

“Well, if it is of such importance to you, I’ll see what can be done. I assure you that Dr. Watson won’t have to miss any of the comforts he had grown accustomed to. I assure his every need will be met. There will be no hindrances for him to live a satisfactory life. Even if I still doubt that this is the best solution there is.” Mycroft finally agreed.

Sherlock was already standing up from his chair, making his way to the door as he stopped and silently said without even turning: “That shouldn’t be any of your concern, Mycroft.”

He kept his head held high and his gaze defensive even if on the inside he didn't feel as confident at all. He felt dissatisfied and defeated, but under no circumstances he'd reveal this to Mycroft! Proudly he continued his path.

When he reached for the door handle to leave the office, Mycroft raised his voice and called out to him: “By the way, I think it would be in your interest to know that my men were able to detect the identity of a certain young lady who may pose … let’s call it … an inconvenience to Dr. Watson's future life. Do you want me to take care of her now that she has a name?”

Sherlock hesitated. Did he want that? Would he even like the thought of The-woman-known-as-Mary ‘retiring permanently’ as Mycroft would put it? Despite everything John thought and despite everything Sherlock went through he sort of appreciated her. There were only so many people who could outwit Sherlock Holmes. It would be a shame to put such a clever mind to rest.

“I think…” he said slowly. "Well… this isn't my decision to make. You'll have to ask John himself. I can't estimate his reaction to these news. Now we have background information… I don't know...”

“And would you like to offer this information to him yourself?” Mycroft asked with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock's shoulders sagged visibly. “I don't think that would be the best of plans at the moment.” Sherlock said. “I don't want to stand in his way.”

“As you wish, brother dear.” Mycroft calmly ended the discussion. “Have it your way.”

Sherlock snorted resigned. “As if…” he muttered under his breath and hoped that it would stay unrecognised.

But Mycroft added in a more tender voice: “You know that I care about you, Sherlock!”

Without any further reaction Sherlock left the room and climbed the stairs, much slower and even more quiet than he had made his way down mere moments ago.

_'Done!'_ He thought. Although it didn’t give him any satisfaction at the moment.

_'It probably just needs some time.'_

He’d manage. He had before, as had John. This was the best solution - for them both. Sherlock tried to convince himself and straightened his spine.

He had to let it go. He had to take the leap again, but this time thoroughly. It wouldn’t suffice to make John forget _him_ to part their ways for good. He himself had to try and finally start to delete.

Sherlock didn’t even think twice when he once again hopped into the black car in front of the Diogenes Club and slumped into the back seat.

“Battersea station,” was his only command while slamming the door shut.

“As you wish, sir,” the driver said in the neutral tone which all of them mastered effortlessly.

Calmly the car made its way through the London traffic and regardless of his usual restlessness, right this moment Sherlock was thankful for this slow approach. He needed to calm down, once again trying to think of nothing. This ran the risk of becoming a habit, his brain would shrivel and give up thinking completely at some point.

But nevertheless, he couldn’t help it. The only thought circling in his mind was _'I can do this. I CAN do this! I can! Yes, I can. And I will! I can DO this! Of course! No doubt. I can do this! I must. I will! ……'_

Like a mantra he repeated it until Battersea Power Station came into view. A feeling of relief flooded his whole body and he allowed himself to ease his numbness, allowed it to change to some kind of determination. He could do this. And he would start NOW!

With this in mind he made his way inside, which he could have done blindly by now. But as he reached the hiding place of his belongings he cursed. Being angry with himself he picked up his needed items. 

“Shit,” he growled. 

In all the hurry he had forgotten, that the last time he’d been here he had left this place still dressed in his sweaty shirt. And he didn’t bring a new one. The other one being forgotten and still thrown over the chair in his bedroom.

He couldn’t really blame himself given the circumstances lately. But now he had to improvise. Unfortunately he had chosen his white dress shirt this morning, his casual one but none the less expensive. The only option was to do without. It wouldn’t be that intolerable as the temperature outside was increasing and the sun warmed the air inside the building through the windows . He even got glimpses of the dust whirling in the incoming light out there where he would stand in just a moment. He would be able to feel the sunbeams caress his skin, feel the warmth seep into his body, taking away the tenseness of his muscles. He noticed that he was even grateful now for the fate that made him forget his shirt. This would do, and it would add just the last missing bit to the task at hand - trying to lighten the dark shadows lingering in the corners of his soul.

Quickly stripping off his clothes and shoes Sherlock changed into his tights. He welcomed the comfortable feeling of the fabric stretching around his hips and thighs.

At first, the chill that lingered in the shadows made him shiver, goose bumps spreading all over his skin, a shudder running down his spine. He hurried to step out into the by now well-known space of the machine room and curled his bare toes into the dust beneath his feet already warmed by the sun. Sherlock took a deep breath when the promise of freedom made the weight on his tired shoulders a bit lighter. He could do this!

[The first chords](https://youtu.be/gXN9acC9edU) directly filled his body with a steady rhythm, his muscles slowly started to work on their own. Some sort of nervous energy making him twitch, like an itch simmering under his skin, wanting to be scratched but never easing.

His foot picked up the rhythm, his heel tapped the dust, his fingers snapped accordingly. His shoulders, his abs, his whole upper body began to work to match his movement, forcing his spine into rocking motion. The muscles in his back contracting and bulging on either side of his spine, sliding underneath his skin, making it stretch and reminding him pleasantly of the boundaries of his own body, his transport.

His head rested limply on the soft cushion his neck was forming, eyes closed, curls tickling his nape where it was merging into his upper back, bouncing to the rhythm he held by.

**_I won't stand in your way_ **

**_Let your hatred grow_ **

****

_'I have to let you go. I won’t keep you hostage any longer. I failed to protect you. All I want is your happiness. If you want to go after her, I won't hold you back. I don't want you to hate me. I won’t stand in your way.'_

**_And she'll scream_ **

**_And she'll shout_ **

**_And she'll pray_ **

****

His head fell forwards shaking no without him knowing what he was refusing, declining, ignoring, denying. The strands caressing his forehead, but instead of a soft tickle it felt like pinpricks causing a headache, an ache stretching along his jaw making his neck feel stiff and his brains numb.

**_And she had a name_ **

**_Yeah she had a name_ **

Sherlock slammed his hand flat on his thigh, centring his anger, turning it into physical pain, distracting his sensation from the growing tension around his jaw, which kept his unvoiced scream inside. 

_'What will you do? When you learn her name… Will you leave? You’d leave anyway. Will you go after her? Would you want to clear things up now that she has a past? No secrets anymore. No betrayal. That’s what you do, being all dutiful and reliable and good… always so good. It made you so sad. All this anger, all this sadness. If you want to go after her, I won’t keep you. I don't want you to be sad. You don’t have to be good for me any longer. Just please, don't hate me.'_

****

**_And I won't hold you back_ **

**_Let your anger rise_ **

****

Clenching his fists, the only thing Sherlock craved was a rope as a last string to cling on to, to hold John on a leash, to pull him back before he could burn himself on the fire.

Shifting his feet, doing a half turn Sherlock found it easier to breathe. As if to face away. From what? From his problems, from John, from the temptation to hold on to what is inevitably lost? He knew that facing away only meant that the threat lingered behind your back, that danger was there to take you by surprise. He didn't care. At least he didn't have to watch and witness. Ignorance is bliss. Well, what is wrong with bliss?

His one fist struggled its way upwards, under great restraint his hand unfolded to let go, the palm stretched open, balancing the whole sky’s burden the way Atlas once had to carry it bowed under its weight.

**_And we'll fly_ **

**_And we'll fall_ **

**_And we'll burn_ **

****

_'Above all the others we’ll fly. Didn’t you say that, John? Did you? We did! We did. But look where we are now. I fell. Hard. And we burned. In the end he burned me. Us. That’s the same. It is, isn’t it? Is it still? No, it can’t be. I don’t want it to be. You’ll be you. I’ll be me. Will I? Who cares? No one does. No one will.'_

**_No one will recall_ **

**_No one will recall_ **

In the end both his arms shot up and he bent backwards, throwing his head back carelessly, his arms were forced to be slowly lowered at his sides, pressed backwards by a force unknown. Like a tree trying to withstand the storm. He felt an uncomfortable yet reassuring stretch of his throat and breastbone in contradiction to his shoulder blades pressed forcefully together. He could feel his skin being squeezed, almost painfully though.

This felt exactly the opposite to the downcast hunched figure he had been feeling like just mere moments ago when he had left Mycroft’s office.

His arms still spread to his sides, behind his back, Sherlock felt the power unfurling in his muscles, the energy with which they were forcing his entire movements. The strength of his bend arms seemed to spread beyond his limbs, beyond his body, beyond his mind ... wing-like. 

_'It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if anyone cares. I don't want to care any longer. I’m no angel. I told him. He didn’t believe me. Neither did you, John. I’m not the hero you wanted me to be. Look at me, I ruin everything. How is that a hero? I won't fool you any longer. Nor me. Please let me go. I will let you go. I can do this. I will. I have to.'_

Bit by bit Sherlock’s arms sank down, his tensed body relaxed; face closed up and distant. 

****

**_This is the last time I'll abandon you_ **

**_And this is the last time I'll forget you_ **

**_I wish I could_ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ **

Changing his movement in a sudden he let his upper body fall to one side, letting one leg carry all his weight, stretching the other one high into the air before suddenly he snapped it back, turned, slumped down in a crouch before rolling his body back up again in one fluid motion. 

_'How? How does one do that? Cut out a piece of oneself, dissect one’s heart? Will it stop hurting when it’s gone? Will it stop bleeding? When it’s done? Or will there only be a hole? Will I go into shock? What would be the next step? No! I have survived a hole in my heart before. I will again. I just have to try. Try. Try. Keep trying.'_

He repeated it again and again, refocusing on his transport, physical pain, so much easier. He concentrated on the stretch of his inner thighs, his flanks. The strength that he could feel held his body together and in balance.

Breath becoming more and more ragged, he felt the sweat running down his spine, tickling his skin and pooling at his lower back, on the seam of his tights. It rippled down his temples, his curls were plastered to nape and brow. ****

****

**_Look to the stars_ **

**_Let hope burn in your eyes_ **

****

_'Isn’t it beautiful? That’s what you think, what you said. Yes, John, yes. It is. The stars in particular. They are beautiful. I'll always know that you'll see the same stars as I will. You looked at me. Why, John? Why? What was it all for? All this happiness. All this hope. Did you feel it too? Was it just me? All of it… worthless. Hopeless.'_

**_And we'll love_ **

**_And we'll hope_ **

**_And we'll die_ **

****

_'I died for you. I died. For you. You make me feel alive, but in the end… I died. Still don't feel alive again. Inside.'_

His whole upper body still swaying from side to side, as if he still hadn’t found his axis, his centre, his balance.

_'What for?'_

**_All to no avail_ **

**_All to no avail_ **

_'What for, John? What was the point of it all? You lost me. I lost you. We lost us. The us… we lost our us. And what am I without us? So, I lost. In the end I lost it all. I'm still losing it. It will destroy me. And yet I can’t let go. I’m captivated. You hold me captive, John! Let me go. Let me forget. You will destroy me and I can’t let you go. I will destroy you. I want to let go!'_

He was slowly taking steps backwards now, the waves through his body never faltered, but nevertheless more sturdy now, reassured, bolder.

In between the steps his feet traced broad circles in the dust and he could feel the point of contact between his body and the ground, the dust being parted by his toes, leaving evidence of his progression by drawing patterns for everyone to see. Evidence. That he had been here. That he had let go. For a split second he wondered what the construction workers would think of it the next day, but was then pulled back under the blanket of the trance like state evoked by the music.

Alternatingly his legs were stretched outwards to his sides, long, slender. Like roots searching for ground to hold on to. His body bending over as if drawn to them, arms following the motion. ****

****

**_This is the last time I'll abandon you_ **

**_And this is the last time I'll forget you_ **

**_I wish I could_ **

Slowly he came to a halt. Arms raised, relaxed. He bent his knees as if to underline the stability and strength of his stand and he'd like to think of his emotions, too. Tentatively, Sherlock started swaying his pelvis. Trying out his equilibrium. Provoking his body. Challenging it to show any weakness. Any struggle. With growing confidence he became more and more daring until his hips snapped almost obscenely wider and wider, from side to side.

Suddenly his arms sagged down, same as his head which fell backwards, eyes closed again, sort of resigned and slack expression taking over his face, his lips slightly opened, puffing breaths.

From his hips upwards along his abs and pecs, from his collarbones via his shoulders all the way to his flexing biceps his body changed into a rocking motion, moving back and forth with each beat, bringing a before unseen aggression into his movements, like a clock winding up. 

Bent forwards he buried his hands into his curls, he clenched his fists, pulled hard. He wanted to tear his hair out, his scalp, his brains.

_'Make me forget. Let me forget. But how am I supposed to forget. How without losing myself?'_

**_I wish I could._ **

He had to demolish his whole mind palace to get rid of the last shred of John-ness. John was everywhere. He had infiltrated every hidden corner in his mind, every last yet undiscovered gap. To make this happen Sherlock would have to build himself up from the ground. No way to go back to who he had been. He had to become new man. An unimaginable different one. One without John. 

A Sherlock without a Watson.

Sherlock could feel the warmth of the sun seep into his body and add to the burning inside. He tried to convince himself, this was how contentment and confidence felt like. Looking forward with certainty to a future he couldn’t see. But underneath he could sense a kind of yearning and desperation which he didn’t want to be there, which he tried to force away. But it lingered, smouldered under the surface, threatened to burn him. All over again. He wanted to douse it, to drown it, to blow it out and away. But he had to be careful. If it broke free into the open it could turn into a roaring fire.

Turning himself into the typhoon he needed to forestall to be burned to ash, Sherlock steeled himself, arms positioned out in front of him, as a means of defence. One leg pointing sharply forwards, daring anyone to come near. In a flash, it was forcefully swung in a circle to pull himself into a pirouette of lightning speed. Without touching the ground his leg worked relentlessly, forcing him from one turn into the other without a break, without time to think, without any possibility to find a fixing point.

He moved faster and faster still, breathing heavily, no orientation left. His hair and his body were wet with sweat, curls flying, whirling around his head. The air brushed his damp skin, numbing it, cool enough to let the fire die down. Hiding it underneath the remains of the burned, under grey ash. Ash of the colour of greying hair. He knew ash. Ash was safe. At least he could pretend.

_'What I can't see I can’t observe. What I can’t observe I cannot deduce. I don't need to think about it. It's not important. It's irrelevant.'_

When he felt dizzy enough to see the world turning without seeing anything at all, he ended his pirouettes by standing with his legs spread, feet wide apart but secure on the ground, his arms resting reassuringly at his sides. His head held high and proud.

He felt a drop of sweat run down his temple, following a path next to his earlobe along his jaw and down his throat to pool in the small hollow above his collarbone. The slight tickling send a shiver down his spine, his skin being over-sensitive sending high-voltage through his synapses. He didn’t allow it to distract him. He had to be in charge, controlled, shielded.

Standing still, nearly choking on his own breath, Sherlock absorbed the words, tried to weave them into his tissue, make them part of his being. ****

**_This is the last time I'll abandon you_ **

**_And this is the last time I'll forget you_ **

**_I wish I could_ **

**_I wish I could_ **

He felt his body move without his influence. As if to shake off the last traces of dust, of old clinging spider webs. Again and again his upper body slumped down as if in a trance only to move up in waves again just seconds after, his spine bending and stretching in near impossible ways, his muscles working hard and unwearied. The one moment his arms were raised desperately high above his head only to slack down at his sides directly after.

With the last chords, one last smooth and fluent wave meandering through his spine and Sherlock was standing there, panting, sweaty, chest heaving, heart pounding. Open eyes looking unblinking into the void, gaze lacking any emotion, heart and mind closed up, all walls built up again.  
  


“Finally” he breathed out, voice puffed but resolute, unwavering and aloof.

**  
  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/gXN9acC9edU)  
> "old" song for this chapter and the former one can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/O-fyNgHdmLI)
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Stockholm Syndrome**
> 
> The Stockholm Syndrome is a severe psychological condition in which mostly people who are held hostage, but also people who are abused or traumatised in other ways, develop positive feelings towards their captors/abusers. Those feelings can range from mere acceptance to romantic or even sexual attraction. (for more information see links) It is not my intention to downplay the severity of this condition by using characteristics for it in this chapter. I rather took some creative license with the song, as Sherlock identifies his current feelings with the syndrome. He's just not sure yet, who is the captor and who's the hostage. That in itself should make him wonder, but he's beyond logical reasoning at this point...  
> 
> 
> more information on the Stockholm Syndrome can be found here:  
>  [www.healthline.com](https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/stockholm-syndrome)  
>  [wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stockholm_syndrome)  
>  [www.livescience.com](https://www.livescience.com/65817-stockholm-syndrome.html)


	5. Nothing Left Here To Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How on earth could Sherlock look this sensual, this tantalizing?
> 
> Sherlock had never expressed any desire to engage in any exchange of physical attention, neither platonically nor let alone sexually with anyone. Mrs Hudson was the only one who was on the receiving end of an affectionate but brief hug now and then. But that was about it.
> 
> It was as if this man simply felt no desire and had no needs at all. John had always thought of him as asexual. Probably that was one reason why he had suppressed the slightest hope he once might have had of their friendship becoming something more. Now it all came back with full force, and it frightened him.
> 
> Because that person in front of him was definitely anything but not sinfully physical - pure presence, pure sensation, pure sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta insisted on the warning to be sufficiently equipped with tissues before starting to read this chapter. So. There. You're welcome.
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

Crouching in the middle of the sitting room, still damp from his shower and half clothed, well, rather not clothed at all, John needed to hear the front door slam shut to come back to life.

“Oh no. No no no no! No Mister, that’s not how we’re doing this! You’re not running from me again. Not before explaining this bullshit to me!” John muttered as he jumped back to his feet and hurled around nearly dropping the pile of clothes he still clutched in his hands. The towel around his hips slipped to the floor. 

Bare arsed, hair in disarray but clutching his clothes in front of his crotch he remembered his phone, still mute and screen black, lying on the coffee table. He had to charge it, at least a bit, otherwise he had no connection to anyone at all and he sensed that he might need that. 

He shuffled in the direction of the sofa, nearly getting his feet tangled in the towel on the ground, and picked up his phone. Shuffling back to the kitchen, the clothes got strewn bit by bit across the living room floor. 

“Oh bollocks!” John huffed, letting go of the remaining bit of his clothes, only hoping Mrs Hudson wouldn't make her way upstairs.

He grabbed his pants from the floor. At the same time as plugging his phone to the socket above the kitchen counter he hopped on one leg to get into his pants. He then picked up his trousers from where they'd fallen and struggled one-handed with the zipper, his other hand currently tangled in a shirtsleeve. He did neither care that he looked slightly ridiculous nor that they were yesterday’s clothes. No time to gather new ones from upstairs.

When the green charging dot finally lit up, John pushed the buttons to start his phone and rushed to the bathroom during the time it took until the system booted up properly. He at least needed to brush his teeth and comb his hair a bit.

Just a moment later he was back in the kitchen and rummaged in the drawers and the book shelves searching for the battery pack he used to use when Sherlock and he had been out on cases, when they had expected it to be a long one. 

He had purchased it after the one time they had ended up surrounded by trees, no street and no civilisation in sight in a goddamn place in the wilderness behind the boundaries of urban life. They'd had no fucking idea where they were. It had happened after chasing one or another criminal by foot. And of course, both their phones had run out of battery and there had been no way to contact anyone. It had been nerve wracking, especially with a sulking Consulting Detective at his heels.

However, now he needed the battery pack because he had no time to wait for his phone to charge. He wanted to leave and as soon as possible. But with the mess Sherlock had created in their shared living space the bloody thing was nowhere to be found. John cursed and was getting more and more annoyed with Sherlock.

While John was still hastily and randomly pulling open cupboard doors and drawers, the screen of his phone lit up and the ping of an incoming message stopped John in his frantic search. Frowning he lifted his phone and unlocked the screen to see who had texted him. He read the first message that came into view and his frown deepened even more. It was from Sherlock and it said: “Finally. SH". John stared at the phone in his hand, as if it would start to explain, but it remained uncooperative. 

He wondered what the text could mean. Finally, John was awake? Finally, they had spoken after the argument? But that hadn’t been particularly successful, had it? Finally he got away? Finally… what? It didn’t make any sense. Until John glimpsed the time it had been sent: “3:52am”. _What the fuck?_ Now John was even more at a loss than before.

Actually, he had to think about all of this later, now he had to run after one of his more urgent problems. Otherwise it would be too late to track down that annoying idiot friend of his. Out of sheer luck he finally found the battery pack he was searching for between the tea can and a bottle of some awful smelling chemical. After Sherlock had used it in one of his experiments for a purpose which never quite revealed itself to John, the stink had remained in the flat for the better part of one week, which had made them stay at Mycroft’s place and that hadn’t added much good to Sherlock’s mood. 

Relieved, John grabbed his phone and battery pack, tried to slip into his shoes while at the same time reaching for his jacket, nearly tumbling to the floor. He cursed and finally rushed down the stairs, not even bothering to tie his shoelaces, his shirt only half buttoned up and still partly hanging out of the seam of his trousers. While fumbling with his shirt buttons, he threw open the front door with the intention to stop the first cab he’d run across, only now realising that he had no idea where to go to, because Sherlock was long gone and out of sight.

But in an instant he froze in his steps when he spotted the car waiting in front of him. He sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. Really? Being kidnapped by the ‘Queen’ himself was the last thing he needed right now. But knowing Mycroft and his minions he wouldn’t have any choice. Capitulating he pulled the front door of 221 shut and opened the back door of the vehicle with some hesitation, slipped inside only to find himself confronted with the familiar sight of the mystery figure known as Anthea tapping away on her phone.

“Hi again I suppose?”, John tried with an awkward grin, tilting his head a bit towards Anthea-not-Anthea. He was only rewarded with an annoyed sigh, the woman never stopping to type. 

“So, what’s all this about then? I’m in a bit of a hurry actually…” he tried again.

Not even looking up at John she proclaimed: “Mister Holmes thought it fairest to deliver the unpleasant news in a timely manner and in person. Therefore your attendance is required.”

John needed a moment to let it sink in and nonetheless the only thing he could bring himself to say was: “Huh?” Looking confused at the disinterested woman in front of him he only grew more irritated.

“I’m not authorised to give any further information.” And with that she returned to silence. Chewing her gum, she ignored John again. 

Resigned John settled in and soon he was aware of their destination – Diogenes Club… where else?!  
He prepared himself without even knowing what for. But as far as he knew even just a random conversation with Mycroft Holmes needed preparation. 

At their destination John didn’t even have time to leave the car before he saw a familiar silhouette leave the building. The long dark coat billowing behind him in his rush. Sherlock swirled around, facing away from the car, from John, and thus was unaware of their presence. Looking over his shoulders Sherlock summoned a cab and John’s breath hitched when he glimpsed the expression on Sherlock’s face.

 _‘Oh, what have you done, Mycroft?’_ John felt anger boiling up and the urge raised to grab a certain pompous big brother by his expensive tie to give him a mouthful.

He was on his way to open the door, when Anthea spoke again: “You are kindly asked to wait in the car for Mr Holmes.” Immediately afterwards she let herself out and John was left alone. Through the windscreen he saw the cab containing Sherlock pull from the kerb. This whole thing was more and more confusing by the minute.

John didn’t have to wait long before Mycroft slipped in beside him. Giving John not so much as a look he said: “It is very much appreciated that you were able to spare a bit of your surely precious time to keep me company, Doctor Watson.” John huffed and answered: “Well, I didn’t really have much of a choice, did I?” And added scoffing and with a good amount of sarcasm: “Mister Holmes…”

Mycroft turned his head and watched John for a moment with a serious gaze, probably taking in John’s state of clothing and surely making all the deductions he needed. After a while he took a deep breath and spoke again: “John…” he paused for a moment, his eyes not leaving John’s face. “John”, he started again. “What are your intentions with my brother?”

“Really, Mycroft?” John gave a short and unamused laugh, briefly looking up at the roof, shaking his head in disbelief, then looking back at Mycroft. “I thought we both discussed that one already. A pretty long time ago actually What are you up to?” John turned in his seat to face Mycroft, frowning.

“Well…”, Mycroft started coolly, trying very hard to maintain the impression of handling just one of his jobs.

“It seems that my brother has reached a point in his life at which he feels the urge to take some significant and… uhm… maybe life-changing decisions, which also may have some influence on your own life.” He gave John a meaningful nod. “I have to admit that I’m not quite sure if he is aware of the impact it might have on both your lives, but he’s certain that you would appreciate his decision.” Mycroft remained absolutely motionless, the expression on his face not even sliding the slightest bit.

John stared at him. Not knowing how to react, he felt all the anger and the tension of the past few days boil up in him, and if he was honest with himself there was no small amount of fear mingling with it.

“What does that even mean, Mycroft? Care to explain? Hm?” He began calmly, but already breathing heavier through his nose, trying to keep the overflowing emotions at bay. But of course they already started to spill. “Life-changing decisions, huh? What would that be?”, it came out with more force than intended, only just before he started to shout at the still mute and unimpressed looking Mycroft sitting next to him: “What the fuck, Mycroft! You can’t just drop this and leave it! Spit it out, goddammit. What is it? What is going on here?” He could feel his face redden in anger as he glared at the older Holmes who only looked at him observantly, flinching only slightly at John’s much too high volume for the small space of the car they were sitting in.

Slowly realisation dawned on John and he paled. He leaned away a little from Mycroft, eyeing him suspiciously. “No. He doesn’t… does he?” A crease formed on his forehead.

“I’m afraid you have to be a bit more specific than that for me to be able to answer that question.” Mycroft said stiffly, unbothered by John’s outburst of emotions.

“You finally coaxed him into this mission you never stop bothering him about.” John said in disbelief, not sure if he wanted to listen to his own words. “What does he owe you this time? Asked for a favour again? High price he’s willing to pay for this one then. Damn, are you sure you really want to ask him for that? Six months Mycroft, with a not so insignificant risk of no return! That must have been one hell of a request.” John kept on interrogating the accused. When no answer came forth, he lowered his head, looked at his clasped hands in his lap. Only then he paled even a bit more if possible when he slowly said in a whisper as if speaking to himself: “Or was he just bored? That’s it. He’s bored, he needs a new thrill, a new challenge, a new game.” With that he looked up at Mycroft again. “He wanted a way out of here. You offered and he accepted. That explains a lot of late actually.”

“No,” Mycroft said still composed in his usual manner, but nonetheless John could feel some sort of tension radiating from him. “It's not my place to give any information, but I'm fairly certain, my brother wasn't driven by what you're accusing him of. But above that I have no further understanding of his motives. With this conversation I only intended to let you know that I assure you that everything will be taken care of and that I’ll personally guarantee that you will only have to bear as much of this as is unavoidably necessary.”

“Mycroft, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be! If it affects my life too, wouldn’t you think I have a right to know?” John tried again, beginning to get desperate. He was worried. What was Sherlock getting himself into again? And what about John himself? Where would that leave him?

“It’s not my intention to make the current developments more difficult for you, Doctor Watson, rather the opposite. And for the subject of 'knowing'... if I may say so, I suppose I’m not the right man to clarify the state of affairs.” With that he gave a little nod that indicated the end of this conversation.

“Doctor Watson.”, he said as a farewell as he closed the buttons of his suit jacket and opened his door. Without any sign of acknowledging John, he addressed the driver and said: “Please give Doctor Watson a ride. I expect you know where to.” With a final hum he left the car and John found himself once more left behind. What was this cryptical talk meant to be about? John felt a mix of emotions surge through his body - anger and confusion, indignity and by now also just naked fear. Life-changing decisions? ' _What the hell!'_

All the possibilities whirling in his head and making him a bit weary, he suddenly remembered the incoming texts of the morning. Maybe they would explain something? 

_‘After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that Mister I-prefer-to-text came up with the fantastic idea to discuss things in the middle of the night. By text. Being separated by just one floor.'_

John would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t been so determined to sort the mess that his life had become at the moment. But after reading the messages, he was even more confused than before. It seemed that he had fallen asleep with his music still playing. But it was typical for Sherlock to make such a fuss about it. After all, it was John who had endured a screeching violin in the middle of the night for years now. Who was Sherlock to complain? And what did he even mean with the thing he didn’t like between them. Did he mean what John thought he meant? 

And then there was this _'Finally’_ at the end. There was a rather big time gap between the first flood of texts and this one. Did it even belong to the rest? Or was it out of context? Still, John couldn't grasp the meaning.

John was so rapt in his thoughts that he didn’t even realise the direction the car was taking.

But when he looked up he wasn’t the slightest bit surprised. Even when he had expected to find himself at Baker Street, he just shook his head in resignation at the sight through his window the moment the car slowed down. He stepped out of the car and made his way into Battersea Power Station. 

At least now he was prepared for what he was about to find. And yet, he still wasn’t sure how to react. Just make himself noticeable? Just confront Sherlock? Wait outside and pretend to not have witnessed anything? Just… leave?

But despite these thoughts John’s feet carried him inside, forced by the will to set some things straight, by curiosity and by something he couldn’t quite identify. The thought of Sherlock dancing hadn’t left him for the whole timespan of the last… god, it hadn’t even been a whole day. Felt like an eternity.

He was pulled toward the open space at the heart of the building like a moth to the fire, not even knowing what he’d find there, not even sure if Sherlock would be there at all and what he’d be up to. But he sure as hell knew what he wished to find and he startled himself with the intensity of this thought. Why would his heart start beating faster, why would he feel this little flutter in his stomach? Was it the nervousness about the situation? Was it the insecurity about where all this was leading to?

Why would it then be the memory of Sherlock dancing, moving gracefully, nearly floating that would carry him forwards? He told himself that it was just the novelty of the situation that made him curious. Nonetheless, he was not able to stop himself even if his conscious mind warned him to turn around and leave and look for any other way to solve this mess… not to intrude Sherlock’s privacy, perfectly knowing the consequences.

However, Mycroft directed him here for a reason. He knew he would find Sherlock here. The realisation that Mycroft knew about all of this, left a bitter taste at the back of his throat - he didn’t know why. Mycroft was Sherlock’s brother after all, and Mycroft knew everything. But this was personal, this was secret, this was delicate – this was nothing Sherlock would willingly share with Mycroft. _'And apparently neither with me’_ , John thought sourly.

Reaching the end of his path, he braced himself for what he’d find. He had mentally prepared himself, he thought he’d know now. But when Sherlock finally came into sight, he felt his breath catch. He had thought about a lot of possibilities, he had thought he knew what to expect after the last experience that had left him shaken. But sure as hell he hadn’t expected this. He had to lean against the wall closest to him for support.

There was Sherlock standing in the middle of the open space. His upper body bare, nothing left to the imagination of what was hiding under his snugly tailored shirts. John had to acknowledge that during the last months he had wondered and spend more time thinking about it, than he would ever admit. Even living in the same flat he had nothing to go on but his own imagination when it came to Sherlock's physics. 

Sherlock had been reserved lately, always seemed anxious to be dressed impeccably, curls styled artfully. Of course he had patched Sherlock up regularly in their early days and Sherlock hadn’t particularly cared about decency, but not since he had come back. John had never really understood why.

He remembered very well that one occasion at Buckingham Palace; the one time John had even gotten a glimpse of something he hadn’t quite dared to think about.  
Of course the sole reason Sherlock had gone in nothing but the sheet and been so stubborn to put his clothes on was to annoy Mycroft. He would make use of every opportunity to do so. But it had more than just a bit impact on John, too.

Standing here now, secretly observing Sherlock, he wondered how he had never known. He knew Sherlock was fit even if his lean body had always been just this side of skinny. Since they've been hunting down criminals and running the streets of London often enough, it was only natural to be some kind of athletic. But now, faced with well pronounced abs and pecs, upper arms shaped with bulging biceps, the whole body pure muscle, John found himself staring, swallowing hard, heart racing, holding his breath.

John was stunned by Sherlock’s pale skin looking so differently from what he thought to know so well. It appeared so much more alive and so much warmer, so much more tempting to touch. Lightened by the sun, it was nearly gleaming in the warm light. His skin seemed to glow and glitter. His dark curls shining and reflecting the sunbeams; ebony turned into a warm shade of molten chocolate, trickling down forehead and temples. 

And to finish the breath-taking appearance, there were those tight tights hugging his legs, accentuating the muscles of his thighs and arse in a sinful way.

Sherlock was standing there, head leant back, breathing slowly, chest expanding with each inhale. He looked otherworldly, ethereal. And so different from the pained and desperate creature he had seemed to be the last time John had witnessed this spectacle.

Breathlessly waiting for what would happen next, John watched each little movement of Sherlock closely, still bothered by how Sherlock had managed to hide this from him all this time they had lived together. Or had John been too unobservant? Wasn't that what Sherlock accused him of constantly? Had he seen but not observed - once again? How could John of all people have missed that Sherlock's passion wasn't exclusively for The Work? 

Of course, he had known that there were much more emotions – a soft core so to speak - under that hard shell Sherlock had shown. More than the man himself would ever like to confess.

Although his body had always been something different altogether. He had always claimed it to be just transport - had never treated it well except for his dressing and grooming habits. John had always suspected that _that_ was just a disguise, too, an armour, as so many other things concerning this man calling himself a high functioning sociopath. But that wouldn't explain… John would have never expected... 

How on earth could Sherlock look this sensual, this tantalizing?

Sherlock had never expressed any desire to engage in any exchange of physical attention, neither platonically nor let alone sexually with anyone. Mrs Hudson was the only one who was on the receiving end of an affectionate but brief hug now and then. But that was about it.

It was as if this man simply felt no desire and had no needs at all. John had always thought of him as asexual. Probably that was one reason why he had suppressed the slightest hope he once might have had of their friendship becoming something more. Now it all came back with full force, and it frightened him.

Because that person in front of him was definitely anything but not sinfully physical - pure presence, pure sensation, pure sex.

Now Sherlock’s small and hesitant movements to the immediately roaring music filling the air ripped him out of his thoughts. John watched in awe. 

This was so different to the last time John had found himself in this place. Sherlock’s movements were more cautiously yet with much more certainty. His whole body quivered as if being part of the music. His muscles working, his arm and leg movements looking small but so strong at the same time. The air seemed to hum with crackling tension.

John was speechless, not that he would have known what to say anyway. How could this be the same man?

As in a daze, John was staring, all the reasons he initially came for forgotten, adrift in empty space, all grip on the world he once knew was lost.

Pinned into place he was mesmerized. Watching the slim waist waving from side to side, the thighs tensing, muscles working in a slow rhythm, bare feet tapping in the dust.  
It could have been hypnotizing if John’s heart hadn’t been racing. He had to admit that he was stunned, he was torn, he was very much drawn to that enigmatic being recently occupying his mind.

John swallowed hard. He was certain that he could literally physically feel the heat radiating from that other body in the room. He was certain that he could feel that heat spreading through his veins until he felt it simmering under his skin, until his heart and body were burning. This was really not a good time to be this affected.

He startled when Sherlock suddenly slammed his hand on his thigh and turned. John caught sight of Sherlock’s bare back and sucked in a hissing breath. The smooth skin stretching over the lean muscles was covered with countless scars; from barely recognisable thin white lines to thick red stripes; crisscrossing, reaching from shoulders to waist. John’s heart ached at the sight as he as a doctor was well aware of what had caused these scars. He felt punched in the gut. He felt icy fingers clamp his heart. Freezing blood running through his veins by the memory of his own experiences of torture during his times abroad. The tormented and abused bodies, more often than not marred so much it made them unrecognisable. Dark and dirty cells. Blood straining floors, walls, faces. He himself however had been one of the lucky bastards who had never had to endure it himself. He had always been one of the good guys. He had been the one to rescue those who had suffered through it. He had patched them up. He had been their lifeline. 

_‘God, Sherlock. What have they done to you? What have you been going through? Why wasn’t I there. Why couldn’t I protect you? I would have let those bastards pay for what they have done to you! Why wasn’t I allowed to? Why don’t you trust me?_

John wasn’t able to avoid his eyes from this shocking new discovery. Why didn’t he know? Why had nobody told him? How had Sherlock been able to hide this? The impact of his time away. On body and mind. Why had Sherlock never talked to him. One more thing John hadn’t known. One more thing Sherlock hadn’t trusted him with. Why Sherlock?

This explained things; a lot of things actually. But not all of it.

He kept staring at Sherlock in front of him. He couldn’t help admiring the appearance nonetheless. Maybe even more now knowing what Sherlock had endured; what he had been able to withstand, how strong he must have been.

 _‘How can this be real? How can one man change shape so seamlessly?’_ John thought. Of course, Sherlock was a master of disguise. But then, that had always been an act. A play. A game. This though… this was real. This was honest. This was him. The real Sherlock. 

At that moment Sherlock started lifting his arm, twisting it gracefully and seeing all these muscles into action. That long lean body stretched even more and sunlight caressed the curves and edges of Sherlock's muscular form. Shortly after followed the second arm. Motions so small, but so full of power, it radiated into the air surrounding John, making it hard for him to breathe. 

The way Sherlock lowered his arms made John think of an angel, of a hero Sherlock has never wanted to be. John cringed at the memory of Sherlock telling him not to make him into a hero. And yet… and yet, here he was, covered in scars, alive, back in John's life. Even before, Sherlock had been his own kind of hero to John. Not the fairytale kind and also not the superpower one. Not even the Nobel Peace Prize sort of world saving do-gooder. No, he had the mind of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he chose to be a Detective. He helped people. He saved people. He had saved John. How could Sherlock not have known?

With Sherlock suddenly coming into action and stretching his long limbs and bowing his upper body, making John even more aware of his physicality and his hidden strength, John snapped back into reality. He watched Sherlock’s curls swaying, watched how he slowly moved backwards, stretching his legs, tracing circles with his toes. A slight sheen of sweat formed on Sherlock's skin. God, he felt the need to run his fingers down that back, follow the traces the droplets had taken down Sherlock’s spine.

John tried to stop his own thoughts but was caught off guard as Sherlock started to sway his hips. He didn’t even realise how Sherlock’s face fell into an indifferent mask, didn’t realise where this all was leading to. 

Somewhere in the periphery the lyrics were floating into his mind carried by the blanket woven of the cacophony of sound and bass and the somehow transcendent voice delivering them. This voice, sounding like Sherlock's violin speaking right from his heart. The words were getting under his skin, still not acknowledged by the senses, creating an uneasy tingling like ants crawling through his veins.

But he was distracted, he couldn't focus. With every bit that Sherlock was swaying his hips broader, it got a bit harder for John to keep his composure.

Suddenly Sherlock started turning. Like a whirlwind. He turned and turned and turned. John didn't know such a thing was even possible. Sherlock was moving faster and faster still. To John it felt as if Sherlock was spiraling somewhere he couldn't follow. Out of control was what came to his mind, but it was exactly the opposite that was happening. It was as if Sherlock was rising higher and higher, growing and taking more and more solid shape before John's eyes, while blurring into an unrecognisable reflection of his former self. He was drifting more and more out of John's reach although hardly even moving from the spot. 

John was only slightly aware that he was taking little steps forward, as if trying to hold Sherlock back, to follow him where he was going. Already, he was nearly stepping out into the light, revealing his presence. He wouldn't be able to hold himself back much longer. 

Sherlock was slumping down and John thought he would fall, was about to rush towards him, but before he knew it Sherlock was straightening up, rising rather, and slumping down again. Fluid waves rolling through his whole body, rising and falling merging seamlessly into one another, again and again. Sherlock's entire being radiating power, strength, resistance. Radiating a message: nothing would hold him down, he would get up over and over again, no matter what it would take. 

The damp layer of sweat covering Sherlock's body, reflecting the sunlight. Tiny droplets merging into one another, letting a gleam wash over working muscles and firm skin. He was panting. The soaked wild curls coloured even darker than normal in contrast to the faint flush on Sherlock's cheeks. 

John swallowed, heart beating fast and desperate in his chest. God, what was happening to him? Where was this coming from. But John knew; he knew exactly. This was what he had captured in a hidden place, a little box, securely sealed for a long time. It was torn open now, forced by desperation, by fear of losing it all over again. By the urge to make one last attempt to hold on to his chance to win Sherlock back.

The moment the music faded and Sherlock stopped, standing there absolutely still, steady, confident, strong, breathing heavily, John faltered, already one foot into the room. 

A terrifying realisation hit him with full force.

He was utterly, deeply and absolutely hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And then he heard it. 

“Finally.”

Cold, emotionless, determined. Only now John dared to look at Sherlock’s face and what he saw there, shook him to the core. Absolute aloofness, isolation, indifference. 

Eyes wide open, John slowly tumbled backwards, back into the shades, panting, only now realising he had been holding his breath. The look on Sherlock’s face frightened him to an extent he didn’t even know were possible.

While backtracking and trying to calm down his ragged breath and to stay as silent as was possible under these circumstances, he slowly realised what he had listened to the last minutes. This song that had swept over him, that had drowned him with Sherlock's performance, that Sherlock's presence had muted and pushed to the background. What had it told him? 

John froze. Oh god. It was true then. It was his worst fear coming true.

_‘This is the last time I'll abandon you. And this is the last time I'll forget you. I wish I could.’_

Sherlock was deleting him. That's what he did to things he had no interest in, that were useless, that were boring. He deleted them from his mind-palace to not waste valuable space. John had become the solar system.

This song, it was directed at John.

_‘No one will recall. All to no avail.’_

Sherlock finally realised that all his efforts had been for nothing. He finally realised that John wasn't able to add anything to his game. Wasn't that exactly the thing John had wondered about from their very first case on? The pink lady? What had he been doing there? What had he been doing since?

He had made an utter fool of himself. And if Sherlock despised anything then it was a fool. Fools, idiots, the ones that didn’t realise what was directly in front of them.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to forget him. And apparently he had.

 _‘Finally’_ echoed in John's head, thrumming in his every cell, shaking him to the core.

A strangled sob escaped John’s throat, he raised a hand to cover his mouth to drown any sound that would reveal his presence. He had to get out of here. And that as fast as possible. He had to get out of Sherlock’s life.

He knew when he wasn’t wanted and he wouldn’t let himself be humiliated by Sherlock needing to tell him to leave. He would be ahead of Sherlock. At least this once. Sherlock wouldn’t have to endure him any longer, not one second longer than absolutely necessary.

How could life be this cruel? The very moment he realised he wanted nothing more than to be at this extraordinary man’s side unconditionally, to share his life indefinitely, the opportunity was ripped away under his waiting hands once again. Why was it that he had to let go over and over again. All he wanted was to get a new chance! A second chance? A third? He had lost count. And this time not because he thought it was his one option, his one way to carry on, to survive. No, this time it was a conscious decision, this was out of his own free will, out of commitment, out of acknowledgement… out of… well… out of love!

Fumbling with his phone John hopped back into the still waiting black Sedan, already searching his address register for the needed number. “Do I have to wait for Mister Holmes to accompany you, Doctor Watson?” the driver asked carefully, probably seeing the answer plainly written on John’s face. That’s why he didn’t wait for the answer before pulling away and taking direction to Baker Street.

On the way, John started typing a message, taking his time, trying to steady his shaking hands.

**send 12.23pm** **  
****Hi. John here. I might have to take you up on your offer of a sofa for a night. Does it still stand? For tonight? Let me know asap!** **JW**

He sighed deeply, nervously tapping the screen of his phone. Realising that it might have come over a bit rude he sent a second one.

**send 12.24am** **  
** **Please. Sorry. JW**

He regretted it immediately. That sounded ridiculous, he was making a fool of himself, again. Damn, what would Greg think of him? Well, didn’t matter really, if he’d only have a place to be for the night. He wouldn’t know where to go to otherwise. Molly? No, they weren’t that close. Sarah? No, he hadn’t seen her for ages. Harry? Ridiculous, never! So it was Greg’s or a hotel, a cheap hotel that was, the cheapest, not very appealing though.

 _‘Please Greg, please. Just answer your damn phone!’_ John thought desperately, well aware that it only had been mere moments since sending the text and that Greg might be at work and not be able to answer his phone at all. Being impatient and to keep his thoughts at bay, John started sorting things in his mind _._

 _‘Jesus, so much to think about. So much to arrange and to take care of…’_ and suddenly everything fell into place. 

_‘Mycroft! Damn you Mycroft, you knew all along. You send me there on purpose. Is that what 'being nice' means for you? You bastard, you sick bastard_ …’ John growled. 

He was furious, he was fuming with anger. He wouldn’t allow for someone else to take decisions for him and about his life. Never again. Especially not Mycroft.

Arriving at Baker Street, he didn’t bother about offering even a word to the driver and nothing but stormed out of the car and into the building of 221 Baker Street. He slammed the door shut while already heading to the stairs. His hand on the flight and a couple of stairs up he heard the door of 221a clicking open and Mrs Hudson rushing into the hall with her typical short hurried footfalls. 

“John, dear?” came her warm and lovely but now also concerned voice from downstairs. 

He took a calming breath before turning towards her. 

“Everything alright, dear? You look a bit… well…” she trailed off, probably not quite able to conceive all the emotions showing on John’s face. When he stayed silent she added: “Where’s Sherlock? Is he with you?” 

John cringed. Not quite able to explain what he didn’t yet understand himself. He couldn’t find words. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson…” was all he could manage before turning and continue his way upstairs. 

“What for, John, dear?” he heard her call after him, but his attention was already directed at the room he was entering. Everything was so familiar it hurt. He was now scanning the room for his own belongings and once again discovered that he hadn’t added much to this life. Even their living space was filled to the brim by Sherlock. Not unlike John’s life. 

_‘Until now’,_ he corrected himself. ‘ _Okay, let’s get it over with’_ , he tried to steady himself and to hold himself back from faltering in his decision.

Drawing one more breath he started to gather his few things, rummage the shelves and cupboards. Searching through the books and magazines. Everything he found he threw carelessly on the living room floor. 

He ran up upstairs taking two steps at a time. He picked the duffle bag from his army times he still kept in his closet and threw in his clothes; randomly grabbing a few of each, stuffing them deeper into the backpack. On the top shelf he happened upon a lidded box he once put there and had successfully forgotten - until now.

Hesitantly he pulled it out, tucked it under his arm. After one look around the room he slowly made his way downstairs again. His belongings still lay in a heap on the floor. He'd put them in the bag later. It wasn't that much anyway.

He didn't want to take the whole box though, it was too big to put in the bag and too bulky to carry on the tube. So he put it on the couch table and opened the lid. Even knowing what was in there, he had to take a deep breath before starting to sort the content. 

After eyeing the various items for a moment, he took out an old fading family picture. He must have been about 5 years old. He didn't remember. It was one of the last pictures of them being whole, being one, being happy. At least he had thought they'd been. Now in retrospect, he could make out a kind of distance in the stance of his dad, a sort of sadness in the hollow smile of his mum. It all felt so wrong seeing it with the eyes of the grown up, with all he knew now. His childhood felt like one big lie.

John put the picture aside and rummaged aimlessly through the rest. His hand rustled through more photographs, papers, newspaper snippets. 

He came across articles about his school days, little John in soccer dress, in another one him among his team mates proudly leaning on their squash rackets, a single one about a concert where he played the clarinet - rather badly he had to admit, his parents had never been fond of it either. 

There were a few more articles about his rugby days. That had been a great time. He had been rather good as well, had even been team captain and he was still proud of it. But he felt a sharp pain soaring through his shoulder only just thinking of it. Rugby was a far away past these days, unthinkable in this state he was in now. 

Swallowing he fished out awards of his rugby days and even an old shirt, his captain shirt. He held it a moment, lost in thoughts, softly crumpling it in his hands. With a sigh he threw it on the pile of things next to him and turned his attention back to the contents of the box.

His eyes stuck to a small stack of pictures which was lying on top of it. He picked it up tenderly and immediately memories floated back to one of the happiest times of his life. There was a picture of his youth, he saw himself in swimming trunks, sun bleached hair, smiling into the camera. Next to him Harry circling her arm around the waist of the girl next to her. A sharp pang of pain pierced his heart at the sight of the next one. Upside down, dark hair, blues eyes, gazing intensely right into the camera. They'd been on holidays in France, the first and the last time, it had been glorious. Even though the memories of the aftermath of said holidays weren't exactly glorious at all. When John's parents, most of all his father had found out that Harry's friend wasn't only just her friend but that they had been on the brink of moving in together, live together, love each other, the hell had been breaking loose. Harry had then moved out indeed... and never came back after. She had cut all contact with John too, when she had realised that John hadn't mentioned the boy he had met there with a single word. He hadn't dared to confess the kisses, the shared cigarettes, the night swimming to his father. And with that it was as if it had never happened. He'd never seen the boy again. Harry had felt betrayed by John. He had also betrayed himself back then and he had ever since. 

Maybe that's why he disliked Sherlock's smoking habit that much, John mused. He had never been able to look at the cigarettes touching Sherlock's lips without thinking back. It felt far too intimate. ' _Do you know that I smoked a cigarette whenever I wanted to kiss you?'_ , the sound of a voice he thought was long forgotten echoed in John's mind. Now he thought about it, there was even quite the resemblance between both men. John shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. He shouldn't be surprised, but he was after all. 

_'Well done dad, scaring the shit out of my younger me. Took me long enough to get over it. Now it's too late. So in the end you had your way after all.'_

The pictures, too, went on the pile. Digging into the box once more, his fingertips bumped into a solid edge. After pulling away in a reflex, John gripped the item and pulled it out from under a clutter of other things. 

_'That has been a long time'_ , John thought eying and contemplating the disc. He wiggled it in his hand for a moment.

Memories surfaced of a period in his life he hadn’t thought of in a long while. Incredible how all this had been pushed aside and became irrelevant in the wake of his life with Sherlock.

The last time he had held this disc in his hands the circumstances had been totally different in one way, but in another way it had been exactly the same to what he lived through now.

It had also been an emergence into a new chapter of his life, it had also been an escape, an unknown future ahead. He had also been hurt, abandoned, had lost the grip on his life and for that reason tried to find a new purpose. The very familiar mix of emotions, fear but also resignation at the same time, threw him back years into a time long forgotten.

Only back then, all the way back in 2003, he had packed his bags with fatigues and combat boots, had taken on his new gained rank expressing a certainty he hadn’t felt at all and had left his life behind in the belief of adding his part to the salvation of the world. How wrong he’d been!

Being in a sentimental and disillusioned mood he stood from the crouch and stalked over to their little stereo equipment, which has rarely been used in all the time he had lived here. They hadn’t needed it, either because Sherlock had been playing his violin or Sherlock had been sulking and banning any noise from the flat or Sherlock had been working and not wanting to be distracted. John huffed, only now aware that he hadn’t had any word in those decisions either. What had been his influence in this life of theirs at all?

Naturally, the equipment was all a bit dusty, but it still worked. So John put in the CD and [pressed play,](https://youtu.be/4UexasFsW9s) turning up the volume. 

He settled back down next to the couch table and accompanied by the song on this single record John continued to roam his belongings.

**_Broken record on the stereo_ **

**_Shattered glass from a past I can't let go_ **

**_I hope to hell this is the last time_ **

**_I hope to hell this is the last time I ever hurt_ **

Letting army medals and badges slip through his fingers, thoughts crossed his mind and shifted into one another. Fragments like shards picked from the memory of a past broken into a thousand pieces.

Suddenly the rug beneath his knees turned into sandy coloured dust before his inner eye and he could literally feel the heavy boots on his feet and the steady fabric of his fatigues clinging to his legs. A long forgotten pain shot through his thigh, his legs buckled even though he was sitting steady and safe on the sitting room floor.

His hands moving on without him recognising, gripping the note of the honorable discharge of the military service. 

Indifferent faces attached to lacerated bodies flooding his memories, mingled with corpses in London's morgues, on London's streets. 

A puddle of blood seeping into the desert sand changed into blood spread on a pavement, clinging to dark curls and a pale face.

Sherlock on the roof, trying to convince him that it had all been a trick, all their life, everything that was important to John a lie… Mary in the sitting room of 221b, mocking him: “Did it really take _all this_ for you to realise? Oh, John…”.

John gasped, a sharp pain flashing through his shoulder, his bullet wound throbbed, his arms tingled, his chest ached, his heart fluttered.

**_What more do you expect from me?_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_And I've given you every part of me_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

It almost felt as if he had been shot all over again. 

_‘I'll burn a heart out of you…’_ Is that what he had meant? Destroy John to destroy Sherlock?

John remembered the moment after the bonfire incident. He'd wondered. Was it someone trying to get to Sherlock through him? 

_‘Did you really think you could break Sherlock Holmes by getting to him through me?’_

But there _had_ been someone who had gotten to Sherlock through John; someone who had gotten under Sherlock's skin - quite literally.

 _‘Mary… Mary…’_ his biggest mistake of all. Or was it? Wouldn't he be long dead without her? She had dragged him back to life when he had thought himself buried in that same empty grave he had visited every other day. 

_‘Had Mary known? Had she acted on someone else's behalf, on instructions? Had she pulled him back into the light only to get to Sherlock? To break him? To burn him?_

_Well, that plan didn't quite turn out as planned, did it Mary? Did it, Moriarty?_

_Look at us now; you both gone, me leaving, him choosing a life on his own after all. He's even better off without me._

_There's nothing left here to burn, indeed…’_

A faint memory of song snippets from earlier that day surfaced. 

_‘Let your hatred grow_ ... _She’ll scream, she'll shout, she'll pray… and she had a name…’_

What did Sherlock think John would do? Did Sherlock really think so low of him. Run on the first best moment to execute his assassin ex-wife? As if that had ever been his goal. It had never been about revenge. It had been about safety, for Sherlock, for them. He would have moved mountains to get to that wife, but only ever to make sure she'd never lay a finger on Sherlock again. 

_‘But… look at me, can't do it, not now, not alone._

_Alone._

_Alone.’_

John's eyes scanned everything he had scattered across the floor, all the evidence of his life. His gaze crossed his own wedding invitations, a cream coloured pocket square, newspaper snippets about Sherlock's and his cases, photos of the 'hat man’, and an insane amount of articles claiming Sherlock to be a fake after the fall. He had kept them all, wanted to write comments on each single one of them, but after a while he had given up on convincing people, because people don't matter. Sherlock wouldn't have cared because people are stupid and people talk, they do little else. 

And John, John had been sure. He knew Sherlock. He was the only one who knew who he really was… what kind of man he was. That was what John had thought. But now, he wasn't so sure anymore...

**_A broken heart - tried hard to make it whole_ **

**_But the memories won't seem to let you go_ **

**_I hope to hell this is the last time_ **

**_I hope to hell this is the last time I ever hurt_ **

Suddenly like pieces of a puzzle one thought fitted to the other.

Suddenly he remembered and re-experienced the first moment he had stepped into the labs of Bart’s again, handing Sherlock his phone, hands and gazes lingering much longer than necessary, too long, not long enough.

God, how could he not have realised? How? All this time.

Flashes of Sherlock turning and whirling in his bare torso and tights mixing with Sherlock spinning at the prospect of a serial murder, eyes glittering, pure joy, so young, so beautiful.

Sherlock stretching his bare muscular arms forward in a smooth and fluid motion blurring with Sherlock gripping John’s face with both leather gloved hands, turning him and turning, so very close, John could breathe in Sherlock’s fogging breath in the winter air. The look of Sherlock's eyes boring intensely into John’s. 

Sherlock swaying on his feet, hips moving in sync, muscles rippling underneath scarred skin suddenly merging into Sherlock’s backlit figure against the window of their flat, his features highlighted by the glow of the little rainbow-coloured light bulbs, playing his violin… ‘ _Happy New Year, John’_.

Sherlock dropping down onto his knees in the dust of Battersea station, the heart tearing music stuffing the place, fading into Sherlock crouching next to a victim on the ground, his lean back elegantly stretching underneath the thick wool of his coat, rattling his brilliant deductions. 

Sherlock flying through the air, jumping in long leaps, evaporating all this pent up energy, competing with pictures of Sherlock euphorically jumping from roof to roof in delight of a new trace.

Sherlock throwing back his head, his curls bouncing and sweaty, spreading his arms turning into a fading memory of a dark coat billowing over the body falling down, falling in slow motion, falling endlessly, nobody there to catch….

With each and every memory the strain around John’s heart intensified, like a chain being tightened bit by bit until his heart felt wrung out and bloodless. _‘Transport’_ , John thought. Not even that any more. What is there left to transport? 

The very moment, when he felt all strings of his life coming together to finally weave into the protecting blanket he craved for had turned out to be the same moment every fibre of his life had been torn apart and all the loose threads were floating out of his reach.

**_What more do you expect from me?_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_And I've given you every part of me_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

He couldn't stand this anymore. He had thought he'd found his final destination at last, stay here for the rest of his life, only leave when they had to carry him out on a bier.

But again, again, there he was. Kneeling between the shatters of his life, shoulders heaving due to difficult breathing, John looked around. Was this it? Was this the whole purpose of his life? A box of hollow memories?

And again, again, he hoped this would be the last time. Never again.

But what has all this hoping been good for, all this being hurt and being crushed into pieces over and over again? 

He would have given everything for this life with Sherlock. He had. Every part of him was at Sherlock's disposal. He had nothing more to give. Right this moment he was sure that there would never again in his life be the need for it anyway. He felt drained and empty and as hollow as a shell, nothing left within. This had been the last blow to make the construct that was his life crumble . He has had some hard and depressing and gruesome and downright unworthy times in his life, but this somehow felt worse than all of them combined. Somehow this felt like the end of everything, of all paths his life had taken coming to a dead end.

There was nothing left. There just wasn’t. He was no soldier anymore, no surgeon. He had no family left, no real friends. Most of all, he'd lost the one person who mattered, his best friend, his partner. His love.

**_And I know... and I know... (yeah, I know)_ **

He knew. He finally knew. Finally.

And he also knew what he had to do next.

John kept picking up random objects, eyeing them without seeing, considering them worthless, ignoring them the same moment. Some of them landed in the duffle bag. But at the same pace they were thrown out all over again, nothing seemed important enough to bother himself with.

Being buried in his attempts to pack up the remains of his life, John only faintly noticed the chiming of his phone. When the sound finally filtered down through his haze, John’s head snapped up and he stumbled to pick up his phone, on his way he paused the song to be able to hear the caller, in his rush tipping over the note stand and all the leaves with Sherlock’s compositions snowing down and covering the floor. 

The call had already ended, but there was a message coming in and John fetched the device from the upstairs bedroom where he had apparently thrown it onto the bed at some point.

**received 03.44pm** **  
** **Sure, mate. No problem. Meet me at the yard? 30min. Greg**

That was all the confirmation John needed to run down the stairs, stuff randomly a part of the pile next to it into his bag and the next moment he was on his way out to leave Baker Street behind. For good this time.

He had never been to Greg's new home. Greg was a bit closed off about everything concerning his private life, but John assumed that probably was a totally normal reaction after a recent divorce. Especially because Greg's daughter was also involved and Greg has always felt guilty about spending too little time at home and working unpredictable hours. It was to be expected Greg would feel self conscious about his current situation and wouldn't share much about it.

While trying to secure his grip on the bag and holding his phone with the other hand, John wrestled his way through the crowds of people at the underground station and shot a quick glance at the second message Greg had sent directly after the first one.

**received 03.46pm** **  
** **Any point in asking what happened? Wanna go for a pint later? Greg**

Being oblivious to the glimpses the people threw his way at the sight of him, John awkwardly tried to type his response one-handedly.

**send 04.08pm** **  
** **on my way lets do take away dont ask.**

That moment his train of the Jubilee line arrived to take him to Westminster to the headquarters of NSY. Hustling all his belongings in that old army bag, John was able to snatch some space where he could lean against the wall. He closed his eyes and let the noises of the surrounding crowd and the monotonous rattle of the wheels working the rails wash over him.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/4UexasFsW9s)
> 
> * * *
> 
> some of you might have spotted the reference to one of favourite johnlock fics.
> 
> [Noctiluca Scintillans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14431068/chapters/33330564) by the amazing alexaprilgarden.
> 
> By borrowing her boys for my purposes I wanted to pay tribute to this beautiful story. However, it should be mentioned that none of John's experiences in the aftermath of his youthful encounter as told in this fic has anything to do with alexaprilgarden's original work! I just bended it to my needs.


	6. Shatter Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While wishing his mind to pretend, to lead him to the place of no sentiment, he glimpsed a dark spot out of the corner of the eye. That hadn't been here before. Definitely his imagination going wild then. 
> 
> Don't care. Don't care.
> 
> When Sherlock heard a choked gasp his gaze involuntarily wandered to the spot, to the figure that slowly got shape.  
> Short, denims, plaid button down, neatly trimmed blond fringe shimmering golden in the incoming light.  
> His mind had failed, his imagination was cruel.
> 
> But the eyes. Deep blue eyes, locked on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, 
> 
> HEED THE NEW TAGS!!! 
> 
> Also, I chose to upgrade the rating to E for this chapter, unfortunately for not so happy reasons. As proof that I still stand by my promise, I also added some happy E-tags for later in the story (although it might still take them some time to get there...)
> 
> And yes, this is the chapter to which the story owes its name... for a reason.
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

He was once again dressed impeccably. His hair, still a bit sweaty, had started drying and gotten sticky by now, but he knew it wouldn't affect his looks in any negative way. To the contrary, it looked styled, sleek, fancy. It suited him. Nobody would surmise the dust covered skin and muscles sore from exhaustion underneath this flawless outer shell. 

He walked his way home. And he was aware of. Every. Single. Step. Right this moment he couldn't find it as annoying as usual, it even helped him centre himself. It helped him to keep walking, it helped him to keep breathing, it helped him to keep living. He forced himself to inhale, exhale, to find a rhythm. It seemed as though his body lost any ability and any urge to do this of its own accord. So he went on to inhale... step... step... exhale... step... step... inhale... step... step... exhale... step... step... John… step... step... John... step... step… no. No. Stop. He started all over again and concentrated with even more force on his breathing. 

A story popped into his mind Mycroft had read to him as a child. Of course he had been much younger than was advised for this book, but that was the way it had always worked with the two of them. He had always been out of his time. It was a story about a little curly haired girl living on her own, away from the outside world. In an old amphitheater. Helping other people by listening to them and figuring out what they needed. Always on the run from the government's grey men in suits. He just now realised why he had always loved the story and related so much to the protagonist.

This girl, she had a friend, her only friend. He was a street cleaner. He was very wise even if he appeared to be unremarkable - entirely unjustified in Sherlock's opinion. One time, she took a walk with this friend, who was sweeping the street with his broom. She asked him how he managed not to get hopeless in the face of the long street ahead. How could he keep going and not give up? ‘Sometimes’ he had said, ‘sometimes there's a long road ahead and if you only ever focus on the end of the road, on the end of your path, you will think you'll never be able to do it. You get exhausted and anxious, you'll hesitate and doubt and in the end you are not a single step closer to your goal. But if you take one step at a time, just one step, one sweep with your broom, in the end you'll see that you did the whole street without even noticing. And you'll be happy. And that's important.’

That's what Sherlock was thinking about while making his way back. It reminded him of relentless stubborn persistent John. John who kept going regardless what crossed his way, John who got shot, who got hurt, who had endured loss so many times but kept going and going anyway, always putting himself in harm's way. Invincible John. He had to protect him. Sherlock had to protect this exceptional man from himself, from his own foolish life choices. He had to protect him from Sherlock. 

And he himself, he definitely shouldn't look at the end of his path. Even taking step for step, breath for breath he felt anxious still, actually more anxious with each step taken. He was doubting if he even wanted to get to the end of the road. But he forced himself forward. He had to face John, he had to reassure him, he had to tell him that it is what it is.

In the same way he finally climbed the stairs to 221b.

One... inhale... step...step... five... exhale... step... step... nine... inhale... step... step... thirteen... exhale… step... step... seventeen… 

He felt like he stopped breathing all together as he opened the door and entered the living room. He took in the state of their flat, his flat. Motionless he stood in the doorway and scanned the room, eyes the only thing moving. Items seemed randomly scattered across the floor, his music stand toppled over, sheets thrown all across the room. But most of all his eyes stuck on a box sitting on the couch table. A box Sherlock had never seen before and which was filled and surrounded by countless papers and items carelessly strewn over the floor and the table surface. When Sherlock realised what all the papers were about an icy grip seemed to twist his guts. All these papers about the fall. John had cut them out. He had kept them. What must it have been like for John? Facing all of that, on a daily basis. Realisation about the impact his disappearance had had beyond the fall itself dawned on him. Sherlock nearly doubled over. He hadn't been there. John had to bear this all alone. No wonder that he still held a grudge against Sherlock. 

He took a step closer, looked closer. All the little things John, pieces of a past Sherlock had never had access to. What a wasted opportunity. Cautiously he picked up a picture of John as a kid. He wished he already would have known him back then. 

He tore his eyes from little John's happy face and let his gaze roam the room again. Drawers left open, missing books left gaping holes on the bookshelves only to lie on the coffee table still, even the RAMC cup John loved so much was still standing on the table next to his chair. 

So much evidence of John's life at 221b and nevertheless Sherlock could feel the emptiness of the flat. It wasn't the ‘John-had-a-shift-at-the surgery-emptiness’ or the ‘John-had-left-doing-groceries-without-Sherlock-noticing-emptiness’. No, it was no doubt a ‘John-left-for-good-emptiness’. He had even left in such a hurry and in such desperation that he hadn't cared to take his most valuable belongings. Leaving had seemingly been more important at that point than sentiment. That was uncharacteristic for a John Watson. Sherlock summarised his deductions. This was serious. This was final.

One thing was standing out though because it was such an uncommon sight. He hadn't even been really aware of its existence, maybe marginally as a piece of furniture. But now there was a little red light blinking and attracting his attention. Without noticing he moved forwards, unaware that he was stepping on his music sheets, raising his hand towards the little blinking dot as if it were a rare creature never seen before. He pressed the button he assumed was the right one to stop the blinking. And immediately the room was filled by music, searing, desperate but determined.

**_What more do you expect from me?_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_And I've given you every part of me_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

**_There's nothing left here to burn_ **

Sherlock shivered; it increased to a full body trembling. 

‘ _I O U_ ’... _’Pain. Heartbreak. Loss.’...’I'll burn the heart out of you’._

That was it. He hadn't thought about Moriarty's threat in a long while. There had been the web, there had been the game still. But Moriarty was dead, John was safe. There was no-one who cared about Sherlock's heart now. And still, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that, even posthumous, Moriarty had still played his game. Sherlock had never even had the slightest chance. 

John had chosen to leave out of his own will. Sherlock wasn't the one to decide. Now that John was gone, he also wasn't the one to protect. Without Mycroft's minute planning and without Mycroft's help, how was Sherlock supposed to protect one stubborn John Watson? A John Watson who had decided not to need him anymore.

This was not how Sherlock had planned their separation. This was not what he had intended. He, Sherlock, was to be the one to take that step because he owed John to protect him. It was not John who was supposed to flee. No possibility for Sherlock to keep an eye on him. To let someone keep an eye on him. 

He had misjudged the severity of John's discomfort. He had obviously wanted out of their living arrangement much more desperately than Sherlock had expected. 

Moriarty had played his game well.

In the end, Moriarty had won. There was nothing left here to burn, his heart was gone.

He felt the emptiness like a stab between his ribs which would let him bleed out in the end. He felt as if going back to hell to meet Moriarty and never get out again. It felt like he was hitting the pavement in front of Barts after all. Maybe he should have.

He knew that 221b Baker Street without a John Watson in it wasn't worth living in. He had experienced it before. Only at that time John had come back now and then. Even though he had always left at the end of the day. John had always needed an escape from his dull suburban life and Sherlock was all too willing to provide this distraction - even though the time in between meant nothing but waiting in agony for John's next escape. Now it was different. This time there wasn't any possibility of John ever returning… neither to 221b nor to Sherlock's life. 

Sherlock hadn't expected the strength of pain following this realisation. He hadn't taken this into account when making his decision. But it didn't matter. This wasn't about him. And now… it was too late anyway. John was gone. 

Like in a fog he knew he was moving but no direction, no goal, no reason crossed his mind. He had to remind himself to keep breathing. Breathing was boring, but it kept him alive. And as much as he wished otherwise he had to stay alive. For John. Even if they would never cross paths again, John would find out if Sherlock died. And even if John excluded Sherlock from his life, he was a man of sentiment. He would grieve if only for the good old times. And that was something he would never do to John Watson again.

How he stayed alive was something else altogether… John never needed to know. 

With clouded eyes he threw a glance around him from time to time without really taking anything in. He wasn't really aware where he was or how he'd come here or how long it had taken him. All he knew was that he'd never once anticipated how a life without any chance of John Watson's company ever again would feel like. He had always, _always_ known that there was still a chance.. Even through the years he had been ‘dead’ he had known, he had lived towards it. He had stayed alive for it.

Once, London had been his refuge, his one place on earth he felt safe. He only had to breathe it in, feel every quiver of its beating heart to feel home. The main reason was that it also was the home of a certain army doctor. Now though, the same fact turned the once sacred place into hell - it was pure torture. John would be within reach, but out of reach for Sherlock at the same time. How could he escape this impasse? Not by leaving London, as staying in town was the only way left to stay in any way close to John. Not by staying either, because there were memories of John at each corner, which would defeat him in the end. And he had already ruled out the very tempting option of escaping this life altogether. How could this happen? Sherlock Holmes left with no way to escape? No clever solution? No clever thoughts? What about the brain without a heart? He had been right all the time, sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. And that's where he found himself now - the losing side. And above all, even his heart was gone, burned, nothing left. 

And that was the moment Sherlock fully understood why a life without a John Watson in it felt like it felt.

He was inevitably, desperately, absolutely illogical and utterly hopeless in love with John Watson.

Now he knew for sure, he was losing. Everything. Himself. He was falling. Falling apart. He had tried. To avoid it. But he fell. For John. A long time before Reichenbach.

The first thing he realised the moment he surfaced from his fugue was music blaring in his ears. Vaguely he remembered snapping at an employee to already sell him these goddamn headphones. He had needed them. Desperately. He couldn't stand the outside world any longer, but his inside world even less. Nowhere to hide, all boltholes out of a different time. The time of the game. The time of John. He wouldn't find any peace there.

He vaguely remembered to also buy a battery pack because he had left his one at Baker Street and he couldn't exactly go back there; charging it at an internet cafe, sipping on an unbelievably awful cup of coffee for what felt like hours, served in an out of date and stained mug. Sip by sip, long gone cold, he couldn't care less. The eyes of the shop owner had followed him suspiciously when he had left, in his woolen coat much too warm for this weather, collar turned up and headphones in place to shield himself from the world. He dimly recalled that he had been reasonably clear at that time.

Apparently he had never taken these headphones off because there was still a flood of words and [sounds of a violin](https://youtu.be/49tpIMDy9BE) and a piercing melody that sounded as familiar as his own heartbeat. He must have heard it for hours now. For days? He didn't even know. But even now after this whole time the words didn't fulfill their promise. He still listened wishing, hoping, doubting, dreading, pleading…

**_I pirouette in the dark_ **

**_I see the stars through me_ **

**_Tired mechanical heart_ **

**_Beats 'til the song disappears_ **

****

_'It's still beating, it's still beating. The song's still playing. Keep playing. Stop playing. John looking at the stars. ‘It's beautiful, isn't it?’ Yes, he is. Does he know?'_

**_Somebody shine a light_ **

**_I'm frozen by the fear in me_ **

**_Somebody make me feel alive_ **

**_And shatter me_ **

_'No. I can't. It's too late. Don't. So afraid.'_

**_So cut me from the line_ **

**_Dizzy, spinning endlessly_ **

**_Somebody make me feel alive_ **

**_And shatter me_ **

_'John's lovely face between my hands. No reason for it at all. His endearingly puzzled look. No reason for it. Spinning, spinning. Case forgotten. Unpredictable extraordinary John. Spinning.'_

****

**_Shatter me!_ **

**_Somebody make me feel alive_ **

**_And shatter me_ **

_'Shatter me. Destroy me. Free me. Liberty in death. The only liberty I'll have from now on.'_

****

**_If only the clockwork could speak_ **

**_I wouldn't be so alone_ **

**_We'd burn every magnet and spring_ **

**_And spiral into the unknown_ **

**_If I break the glass then I'll have to fly_ **

**_There's no one to catch me if I take a dive_ **

**_I'm scared of changing_ **

**_The days stay the same_ **

**_The world is spinning but only in gray_ **

_'Bolthole, high above the roofs of the city, Big Ben. Underground, in unknown depth, a bomb. ‘Of course I forgive you. Of course I do.’ I should have. Then. I didn't. Too cowardly. So afraid.'_

**_If I break the glass then I'll have to fly_ **

**_There's no one to catch me if I take a dive_ **

**_I'm scared of changing_ **

**_The days stay the same_ **

**_The world is spinning but only in gray_ **

_'A roof, a gun, a phone call. A threat, a pavement, fingers on my pulse. I should have. Then. I didn't. Too gutless. So selfish.'_

****

**_Me...!_ **

**_Shatter me!_ **

**_Somebody make me feel alive_ **

**_And shatter me!_ **

_'Please. Please. Please.'_

It was sticky. Slowly he woke, again, and tried to make sense of his surroundings. The surface he was lying on was sticky. And smelled bad. It was comfortable in a weird way, familiar, but it smelled horribly of everything a human body could release. He realised that he was covered by a rough and scratchy blanket, the smell a bit better if it could be called that. Less intense maybe. 

Sherlock lifted his head, which felt heavy and muddy like it was filled with scratchy itchy wool made of the same stuff as his blanket. Tearing open one eye with sheer force he recognised he was surrounded by people, others. Lying on mattresses equal to his own. The room dimly lit, the daylight fighting its way through windows covered in dirt, accumulated for decades without anyone caring. Everything was hung with spider webs which certainly would serve as much softer covers than the ones he was currently shielding under. 

Some memories of last night- had it been last night? - worked their way through the mud of his mind. People slapping him on his back in recognition; ‘Hey, you back man? Thought you'd got off!’... suspicious glances his way of eyes unknown... glazed eyes not seeing anything in the faces that were familiar to him. Offerings and bargains for dope in exchange for money, or sexual favours, or both. What he couldn't remember was if he had accepted. 

In horror he stood with his last ounce of strength, wobbling a bit on his weak legs. His coat, he had to get his coat. He saw it being used as a blanket across the room. With disgust he ripped it from the wretched creature in comatose sleep underneath it. 

Ignoring the voices, the raised hands trying to keep him, Sherlock made his way down the stairs which badly needed renovation to prevent them from caving in. Once out in the open he took a deep breath of fresh air already feeling a bit better, his mind clearing up a bit. He looked down at himself, estimating his appearance - ragged shirt, torn trousers, mud covering his shoes. Where had he been? And how long? One hand rubbing the stubble on his cheek the other one tapping and checking his pockets for his belongings. He stopped his hand in the middle of its trail, sliding it into his pocket. He closed his fingers around the very familiar shape of a cool glass vial, a syringe, a cord. 

He closed his eyes. No. No, he wouldn't have. He can't. He didn't. Did he?

_'Shatter Me'_ , it still blurred into his ears. 

' _Shatter Me'._

He started running. Immediately out of breath. Running from this place. Running from himself. Running, running to an unknown destination. No. Please, no. 

Thirsty, he was so thirsty. No water would ever be enough. He craved more than water. It was more than thirst alone. He felt dried up. Burned. Also starving. Without being hungry. Transport, just transport, he tried to convince himself. But this craving, this insatiable craving. It wasn't physical. And he knew it. What he craved, right now, were answers, were solutions. He needed to understand this mystery. Of John. Of himself. Why could he neither be with nor without John? Was there a way out? How was he supposed to function if not live? He'd let himself drown in a well if needed. To get his answers. He'd fast and flagellate himself and beg to deities he didn't believe in. If someone told him the solution. This case, he was afraid he'd never solve it. All he asked for was to at least understand. He'd rather die understanding than to live on not knowing. 

Shatter Me. 

God, yes. Please. 

He had no urge anymore to win any game. He was ready to lose. He had lost. Everything. 

Please, someone shatter me.

PLEASE!

******

John felt bad. 

After nearly a whole day of consideration he felt really awful. He hadn't heard anything from Sherlock yet. Even if he couldn't expect anything he had still sort of hoped. Maybe he should just regard this as a clean cut. Only it didn't feel like it. He shouldn't have left without talking to Sherlock first, John mused. Maybe it was all just a huge misunderstanding? But in that case wouldn't Sherlock have contacted him? Had John overreacted? Had he ruined it?

Brooding, John sat on the little roof terrace Greg had created for himself. 

The first time John had laid eyes on Greg's new home he was lost for words. He never had it given much thought where and how Greg lived. They had met for a pint at the pub now and then but hadn't been any closer than that. They knew next to nothing of their everyday life although there wasn't much to know about both men anyway - apart from working with Sherlock and living with Sherlock. It seemed that in the end everything came down to Sherlock in John's life.   
Well, at least John knew about Greg's divorce and Greg was aware that John's dating didn't go very well so they felt like brothers in arms fighting against loneliness and heartbreak. Only that John's current heartbreak had nothing to do with unsuccessful dating. Nonetheless, both men could certainly use some company.

So they had met at the Yard and John had paid absolutely no attention to where they were going afterwards, his thoughts still revolving around the events which had brought him here. He didn't care about their destination anyway. 

And when Greg finally had said a bit awkwardly, “Here we are,”rubbing the back of his neck in self-consciousness with one hand, John had looked up and groaned in resignation.   
“Well… it might be a bit cramped but it's not _that_ bad. Thought we two would manage,” Greg had said and sounded a bit worried and embarrassed. 

“No. No, no. It's not that!” John had hurried to reassure his friend as soon as he had realised how his reaction must have had come over. “It's… uhm... unexpected but it looks great. Yeah, great. Really... cool actually.” 

He had looked at the house boat bobbing up and down on the water of the Thames right in front of him. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that if it weren't for the fact that it was moored on the shore of the river on the opposite side of Battersea Park. Within eyeshot of the Power Station. John couldn't believe his luck… or misfortune that was. What was it Sherlock used to say about coincidence? Well…

Lacking other possibilities and because he really didn't want to disappoint and hurt the Detective Inspector’s feelings John had sighed, collected himself and had given Greg a smile as sincere as he could manage. Still, Greg had side glanced quizzically at John but had pulled his keys out of his coat pocket and had stepped over the gap onto his boat and the one step down to open the small door leading to the narrow but cosy indoor room. 

After taking in the interior, the small kitchen corner beautifully fitting next to the sofa and low coffee table forming the sitting room, John decided that this would be nice indeed.   
There was a flat screen telly sitting on one of those fancy low bookshelves right next to a rather antique looking floor lamp. The walls cluttered with mismatched pictures and old maps of London intermitted by narrow windows nearly covering the whole length of the boat. At the end of the room there was another low door, probably leading into the back part of the boat where there might be another room. If they were both meant to sleep here there would have to be a second room anywhere. Greg certainly wouldn't suggest to share a bed, would he? 

Luckily at that moment Greg had resolved all of John's doubts by saying: “Thought one of us can take the sofa and the other the bedroom.” 

It was an announcement but John had sensed the question mark at the end of the sentence. Greg seemed to be quite uncomfortable about his home. John had turned and had given a reassuring nod. 

“It's a nice place you found yourself, Greg. I really like it here.” He had witnessed Greg's face relaxing. “I would be happy to take the couch… a hell of a lot better than any room I could afford otherwise.” 

At that Greg's look had turned serious again. “You still don't wanna tell me what’s wrong?”, he had asked with a little tilt of his head. At loss for words John had only shaken his head a little. He didn't even understand himself, let alone willing to explain to anyone else. 

And that was that. It was the last time Greg had asked and John hadn't mentioned it either. He had called off the shifts at the surgery and at his tone Sarah hadn't even asked why. She only told him to take his time and that they'll cover his shifts. He hadn't worked much anyway since... since... he didn't want to remember the one day years ago when everything in his life had started to go downwards.

Since then John sat somewhere in the flat - well, boat - with a cup of tea in hands, most of the time lost in thoughts. Occasionally he replaced the tea by a can of beer or a tumbler of whisky. All three of them didn't help. He had discovered that he preferred sitting in the so-called kitchen, at the bar stool at the sort of kitchen counter. Here he could look out of the only window which didn't face the Power Station. Or the roof terrace would do as well as he had the possibility to turn away. But that didn't always work. He caught himself glancing that way by times until getting back the grip on himself and forcing himself to look away. 

Now though, after a whole afternoon and evening and night and morning without rest, mind circling only the one topic, he couldn't help it. Sighing, he took out his phone and started typing a short text to Sherlock. After a moment of doubt he sent it.

**send 11.42am  
** **You okay? JW**

He hadn't received any reply till now. But then Sherlock hadn't given any sign of life on his own accord either. John didn't know what to expect. Beyond his regrets, above all, he was worried. Even if Sherlock wanted this, even if John had to accept that wish, for John it wouldn't be easy. Not in the slightest. He could already feel the emptiness hollowing him out, eating him up. A little guilty part of him even hoped it wouldn't be easy for Sherlock either. It sure as hell wasn't 'a decision he would appreciate’. _'Burn in hell, Mycroft!'_

**send 03.55pm  
** **We should talk. JW**

Probably such a commanding tone wouldn't exactly help to make Sherlock cooperate, John thought. 

_'Cooperate…'_ he turned the term over in his head. When had he and Sherlock ever cooperated. The word tasted foul on his tongue.   
_'Cooperate…'_ it had been so much more than that… once. They had complemented each other. _'Completed'_ , his nasty mind added spitefully. 

He hurried to let another text follow.

**send 03.59pm  
** **Don't you think? JW**

That should give Sherlock the chance to back out but also let him know that John cared. John didn't know if he should hope for Sherlock to take this chance or rather exactly the opposite. He wasn't sure what he wanted himself.  
He tried to convince himself that it was totally normal behavior to set his phone on vibrate after that and to check it every ten minutes. He had decided not to bother Sherlock with any other text in case he didn't want any more contact after all. But it was hard to hold on to it. 

He waited the whole afternoon. Maybe Sherlock would need to give it some thought. But when he hadn't heard anything until the late evening hours he grew seriously concerned. Worrying, a faint whisper drifted through his mind. 

Mycroft's voice.  
 _“It's a danger night” ...  
_ _“Please look after him, Doctor Watson” …_

And Sherlock …   
_"I don't have friends."  
_ “ _Alone protects me”_

A tight knot formed inside John's belly. What if he had assumed wrong? What if he just assumed to know what's best, to know Sherlock? Hadn't he been proven wrong on that account enough times lately? He didn't know what to do. Didn't know anything. 

When Greg returned from work that evening apparently it all showed on John's face, because Greg took one look at him and said, calm but stern: “John, I don't know what's going on. If you don't want to share that's okay, it's none of my business. I would offer to help, but I have the strong suspicion that's not a thing I could solve for you. But whatever… you have to do something about it!” And with one more concerned look he added: “You really really should, mate.”

It took John until the next morning, pondering the whole night. He should do something. But what? Greg was right, he wasn't the one to help. Even though he had proven to be a great friend. He had tried, but he couldn't give John what he really needed. Actually there was only one person who would be able to help in any way. And John didn't desire to make use of this possibility. First of all because Sherlock wouldn't appreciate it, certainly quite the opposite, and second because John still wasn't over their last encounter. Damn Mycroft. Damn him, knowing about everything. He fucking knew and still he had let John walk right into the trap. Even more, he had given him a shove in the back.   
But weighing all his possibilities he had to admit that there were only two options; or doing nothing and let it be or… ask Mycroft for help. 

Groaning internally he took out his phone and even if it was only 4.30am he dialed Mycroft's number and waited. He didn't care what Mycroft was doing; sleeping, eating, sitting in a meeting, or about to start a war. This couldn't wait any longer. He hadn't to wait long until Mycroft picked up the phone. “John.” he greeted him as if he had awaited his call. Rolling his eyes John accepted that of course Mycroft would know. And therefore he didn't even have to mention his request before Mycroft continued: “I think it best you would come over here.”, and the serious and concerned tone in his voice stifled any of John's impulses to oppose. And he knew precisely where “over here” was: Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club. 

He left immediately and when arriving at the location someone was already waiting for him and steered him through the hallways. It wasn't Mycroft's usual office though he was led to but some sort of monitoring main office. Dozens of screens showing the streets of London, some insides of buildings, following some person's ways. John was astonished and disgusted at the same time. So, privacy was an illusion after all. He should have known, being familiar with Mycroft and his techniques, but only now he realised the extent of it. John stared in disbelief until Mycroft raised to speak and John remembered what he was here for. 

“We followed him, John. I assumed this would happen in some way. But even I had underestimated the effect it would have.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “He walked the streets for a while… well shuffled would fit it better I guess. I assumed he would seek shelter in one of his boltholes. But he never headed for one of them, not even gotten close to them. As if he downright avoided them.” 

Mycroft regarded the screens thoughtfully.   
“Some stores, some random cafes, never staying long enough for us to retrieve him. There was no pattern, no logic to it and you know Sherlock…”. With that he looked directly at John. Holding his gaze for a while before lowering his head.

“We lost him.” he admitted defeated. “We turned every stone, searched everything, John. Every little corner of London. We know the location of every rat…,” he tried to defend. But looking back at John his words died down. 

“You… lost him?” John growled. “You, Mycroft Holmes, fucking lost him?” John raised his voice and pinned Mycroft with a razor sharp gaze, narrowing his eyes. 

Mycroft raised his chin and looked at John down his nose. “Tell me, Doctor Watson, when did _you_ last have contact with him?” he said coolly and emphasised the ’you’ in his well trained frosty voice.

John swallowed and didn't answer, still holding Mycroft's gaze. Mycroft had a point but John had never been someone to back down. Mycroft only nodded at him and turned towards the screens again. Pointing at one screen in particular he said: “Look.” Nothing more. 

John's eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger and the moment he realised what he was seeing he inhaled sharply. 

He knew the place by now. He even recognised it in the blurry black and white of the CCTV camera. Without looking away he addressed Mycroft again: “That's how you knew that I'd been there.” 

“Obviously.” Was the only answer he got, but John didn't listen anymore. 

He knew what he saw, but he barely recognised the man. This wasn't aloof and controlled Sherlock from not even two days ago. Neither was it annoyed or brooding Sherlock. Not even ruffled and exhausted Sherlock. This wasn't Sherlock at all.

This was Shezza. This was Shezza at his worst, an exponentiation of everything he had found roughly one month after his wedding.   
His hair unwashed and plastered to his head, his shirt hanging loosely, collar buttons open, exposing his throat and top of his chest, one shoulder bared with his movements.   
There was nothing left of the grace and beauty John had witnessed, nothing of the accuracy of each movement, nothing of the power and determination he had seen.   
This was the picture of a broken man - moving restlessly as if driven by some unknown force. Like a marionette hanging lifelessly and being at the mercy of a faceless puppet master recklessly pulling the strings, loving to watch him dance. 

Watching Sherlock, John was reminded of a fairytale by Hans Christian Andersen his mother once told him when he had been a wee thing. About the Red Shoes. A little girl that had to dance and dance and dance until she was totally exhausted. All that as punishment for her arrogance and disobedience and stubbornness. 

_'Oh god Sherlock.'_

This hit much too close to home.   
With horror John's thoughts drifted to the film adaptation of said fairytale. They had once watched it together. Sherlock had chosen it. And for the change, that time, it had been John not really paying attention to what was happening on screen. He had wondered why Sherlock had been that enthralled by that particular movie as he generally disliked most movies. Especially as it was a romance. Back then he had justified it by the era it was filmed in - some kind of very special artful cinematic John had no understanding of or some such crap. 

Now though he understood. Ballet. That had been what had fascinated Sherlock. Ballet, rebelliousness, drama... he was a drama queen after all. John smiled fondly at that thought. But at the end - and John shivered at the memory - the main character, the dancer, had committed suicide. Torn between the love of her life and passion for her profession. Dancing, which she was brilliant in and which she felt being made for. She couldn't stop, not even for her loved one, not even although she knew it would ruin their life. 

John clapped his hands before his face.

' _God... no. Sherlock.'_

“He's been doing this for hours now, John,” came the quiet voice of Mycroft from much closer by than John had expected. A brief tentative squeeze of his shoulder. This unexpected and unusual gesture made it even worse. 

“Why didn't you stop him?” John murmured from behind his hands, voice tired and cracking.

“How do you think that would have been received?” Mycroft asked with a small voice, a pained look in his eyes… powerless… as he only ever was regarding his little brother.

John took a deep breath, forced himself to look back to the screen and squaring his shoulders he asked, “Okay, what's the plan?”

"I don't know, I don't have a plan in this case. Do you?" Mycroft asked, almost desperate. John only shook his head, because if he had he wouldn't be here, would he?

"The thing I know is that he has to be stopped. In time, before it gets worse." Mycroft exhaled.

Worse. John didn't want to imagine 'worse' compared to the current situation. He stayed quiet, waited, didn't know what to say.

"And I think," Mycroft cleared his throat, "it has to be you."

  
  


*********

  
  


He was exhausted. Drained. He could feel it in every bone, every muscle, every nerve. But he couldn't stop. Because if he'd stop he had to face whatever would come afterwards. So he kept going, depending solely on muscle memory

His body was screaming, begging. His mind, too. Begging for food, begging for water, begging for rest, for sleep, for unconsciousness, for death. But he couldn't stop, could he? Nobody could ask that of him. None of this would provide a solution anyway. 

How could his determination only have lasted this briefly? He had to get it back. He was weak. He had never been weak. At least he had never wanted to be weak. And after the last slip he had managed fairly well. But now…

There was pain everywhere. Pain is what he was. 

His joints were refusing to flex, to bend, even though they did all the time - unable to hold him up, unable to provide any support. His muscles sore, no strength left, cramping, acidic. They felt almost etched away.   
They burned. He burned. His body burned everywhere. His feet burned from blisters crusted with dirt, his stomach from hunger, his lungs from forcing in one breath after the other. His eyes burned and itched due to the dryness of far too little sleep and far too many unshed tears, his mind from whirling, his heart from loss… no, not his heart. His heart was gone. Nothing left here to burn. 

_'Sentiment. All of it sentiment. Why?'_   
He didn't want it. Someone delete it, take it away, put it back where it came from.  
 _'How are there people who never felt pain? Mycroft…. Moriarty….'_

_'You always feel it… but you don't have to fear it… death… it's all good…'_

Oh god, Moriarty, he would haunt him forever. He'd never get rid of him. Moriarty was cruel, even in death. He didn't do sentiment. Appealing. Could that be a solution - being like Moriarty? Maybe. Could work. Would work.   
In the end, was it Moriarty to shatter him? Was it? It had been his plan all along. Had he been right? 

_‘I'll burn a heart out of you’ … ‘Because we're just alike - you and I’ … ‘I’m gonna kill you anyway some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special.’ … ‘Now, shall we finish the game? One final act.’..._

Now he had finally reached his goal. Nearly. Sherlock waited for it. Desperately. Wouldn't it be easier to just give up, to let exhaustion take over? Just let it all go?

_'Do it. Moriarty, do it. Let me join you in hell. Let me look you in the face. One last time. I don't want to feel anymore. You never felt. You never loved. You never… never… John'_

Sherlock misstepped, tumbled, faltered. Knees buckled, chest heaving.   
He couldn't keep this up much longer, he knew it. But he couldn't give up. What if it wasn't enough? It'd never be enough. He was never enough.

Arms flying, legs snapping, head turning. 

Everything swam before his eyes.   
Close them. No, not good.   
World shifting, spinning.   
Flashes in the dark behind his eyelids.  
Sensations going wild. 

Suddenly he felt small. The unseen roof rising high above him. Next moment his arms grew long… long… couldn't control his arms. His legs felt numb, but his feet kept moving. They were not connected, not his feet, no connection, just pulled along. 

His head spinning, his chest freezing in place, his knees buckling, his body rising.

Flying.

******

“You, Doctor Watson, as much as I despise to be forced to admit it, you keep him right.”

John blinked. This confirmed all the fears he had tried to temper down. Never in a lifetime he would have expected Mycroft to express more than restrained acceptance on his behalf. This was different. This was acknowledgment, this was a confession of having been mistaken. Sentiment was an advantage after all.   
And this meant the current situation was even more critical than he had already thought it to be. 

Holding Mycroft's gaze John nodded shortly, thin lips pressed tightly together, and turned on his heels. Huffing a breath he squared his shoulders, tugged the seam of his coat down. Into battle.

Tense with nerves John took one cautious step after the other. He clutched his phone in a tight fist at his side… one never knew. It felt disturbingly similar to holding his gun when he was silently following in the wake of Sherlock, most of the time not even knowing what they were up to, what to expect - having Sherlock's back nonetheless.  
This felt familiar, this felt safe, this was his duty. Having Sherlock's back.

Turning the corner that would lead him to the dreaded place he was heading to, he could feel his nails cut into the tender flesh of the palms of his hands. He welcomed the pain. It grounded him, made him aware that this wasn't a surreal alternative universe or one of his nightmares, which had changed shape after… the fall. No more gunfire, dust and heat. Although the screams, the screams stayed. Other voices, other words, no less horrifying. Now his dreams were covered in London dust and haunted by the muffled thump of a body hitting a solid pavement. 

Trying to get some grip John shook his head and closed his eyes. Not the right moment to freak out.   
He didn't realise he took a step with his eyes closed until he felt his shoe hit something on the floor. Soft, still robust, didn't belong here.  
He looked down to find the all too familiar coat lying abandoned on the floor, collar turned up even in its empty solitude. John knelt to feel the fabric, to pick it up, when something small rolled out of the coat pocket and dropped onto the floor.   
Staring at it in horror John took it with trembling fingers. Syringes, plural!   
They weren't filled, but was that a reassuring fact or exactly the opposite. Patting the pockets he detects what he had wished not to find. A glass vial, unbroken, unopened,still full, but same here - was this meant to calm him? John held the items with shaking hands while rising again.   
Now desperate, he walked forward until entering the open central space of the building. And at the sight he faced there he felt something shatter inside him.

The CCTV had not even remotely covered the extent of Sherlock's state.

John's eyes roamed over Sherlock's form. Clothes torn, shirt hanging loosely, buttons ripped, trousers filthy, covered in something John didn't even want to know.  
His feet in socks, toes sticking through holes, no shoes in sight.  
Hands chapped, nails dark from dirt, one sleeve rolled up. Shit.   
Curls greasy, sweaty, messy, matted.  
He looked thin, his skin pale, his posture hunched.

When he finally dared to raise his gaze to Sherlock's face he'd felt his mouth go dry.  
Sherlock's face looked even paler than the rest of the revealed skin, cheeks hollow, dark shadows surrounding his eyes, bloodshot eyes, his gaze glassy and empty. 

Seconds felt like minutes felt like hours felt like eternity before John noticed the sound through the ringing in his ears.   
But watching Sherlock it oddly made sense. These high pitched sounds, screeching searing violin underlaid with an arrhythmic beat… sounding like a stuttering racing heart.   
Desperate pleading voice, begging.  
He could see that this pulled the strings that kept Sherlock moving. Let him change from crunching down to rising up, taking leaps, bowing his body in impossible ways, flexing his back, raising his arms high above his head only to slump down, restlessly stretch his legs again to turn and turn and turn. John was barely able to catch a glimpse of his face. Bending his knees of obviously tired legs hardly keeping him upright, Sherlock didn't stop, kept going, on and on. Faltering, gaping breath, a desperate silent whine in between. 

It didn't make sense and at the same time it did. Searching for the source of the music John discovered the device lying on the ground, blaring, a pair of headphones not far from it, torn as if ripped off with force.   
Looking at the abandoned MP3 device it was as if it was speaking to John, John couldn't fend off the words wavering into his mind.

_Tired mechanical heart_ _  
__Beats til the song disappears  
_

_I'm frozen by the fear in me  
_

_If only the clockworks could speak_ _  
__I wouldn't be so alone  
_

_If I break the glass, then I'll have to fly_ _  
__There's no one to catch me if I take a dive  
_

_I'm scared of changing  
_

_Somebody make me feel alive_ _  
__And shatter me_

John was frozen in place and he felt a cold emptiness form on his inside, a hollow feeling that hurt, a vacuum that made him feel lost and vanishing.

Sherlock was pleading for something, for someone. Someone to make him feel alive. He didn't feel alive? Why didn't he feel alive? Hadn't that been the goal of this whole plan? Had all this been for nothing? Did Sherlock need something else? Someone else?

This someone Sherlock was pleading for, this someone to make him feel alive, had clearly not been John. 

But watching his friend being this devastated, on the verge of collapsing, breaking, John swore to himself to never let this man down again. No matter if Sherlock wanted him in his life or not and no matter how strongly and often his own feelings would be hurt, John would never be far away again. He would always have Sherlock's back. If Sherlock wanted it or not. That was where John belonged. 

  
  


*******

  
  


Sherlock felt a prickling on the back of his neck, a nervousness he hadn't been thinking he would still be capable of. He felt watched. Surely it was just Mycroft's silly CCTV cameras. Did Mycroft really think Sherlock wouldn't know? Idiot! 

_'Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.'  
_

So Sherlock didn't stop spinning. He turned and turned, his view blurring. It wouldn't make any difference. Probably it was just his body giving in, messing with his senses, fooling his imaginations. He welcomed it. Good. 

While wishing his mind to pretend, to lead him to the place of no sentiment, he glimpsed a dark spot out of the corner of the eye. That hadn't been here before. Definitely his imagination going wild then. 

Don't care. Don't care.

When Sherlock heard a choked gasp his gaze involuntarily wandered to the spot, to the figure that slowly got shape.   
Short, denims, plaid button down, neatly trimmed blond fringe shimmering golden in the incoming light. 

His mind had failed, his imagination was cruel.

But the eyes. Deep blue eyes, locked on his.

******

With his newly found determination John tried to clear his mind and figure out a plan. He had to protect Sherlock. But how? How to protect that madman from himself?   
And who was this person he was begging for and didn't dare to get?   
Even as the jealousy stung immensely John tried to convince himself that this shouldn't make a difference. Whatever was needed to protect Sherlock and whatever would make him happy was John's responsibility to ensure.   
So maybe it was on John to take that first step if Sherlock couldn't and bring him closer to what he wanted but couldn't say. What he needed but couldn't get. To fulfillment? He had to convince Sherlock that it was worth it, that he wouldn't have to fear it.

John hadn't even realised that he had made a sound, but he must have. The moment Sherlock's gaze turned on him he became aware that he had also taken several steps into the room. He had moved without even noticing?   
Not good. He had to control himself, he had to be strong. For Sherlock. His own feelings didn't matter. Here was the most important person of his life needing his help, so he would restrain himself. 

He tried to shield his feelings and hoped they wouldn't show on his face, but the moment Sherlock locked eyes with him he felt as bare and vulnerable as never before. Sherlock's gaze piercing his inner core. In that short moment, a train of emotions crossed Sherlock's face John wasn't able to unravel.

Sherlock felt so close and still so far away, in arms reach but still untouchable. John felt strangely separated from Sherlock, excluded. Sherlock, trapped inside an invisible cage.   
John was afraid to reach out only to touch a massive and cold surface. So he felt his heart hammering in his chest, cautious of every of his movements, hesitant of what to do next.

  
  


*******

John.

John.

The hurt, the worry, the hopelessness, the emptiness in John's eyes pulled the rug under his feet. He felt his will break, he felt his knees buckle. His lungs took a stuttering breath.

The strings cut, leaving him without any hold at all. 

His feet numb. He couldn't collect himself, unwilling to tear his gaze from John, he reached out to protect himself from falling.

But he couldn't help it. He couldn't change it. 

He felt a whisper escape his lips. 

"Sorry."

His knees giving in. Struggling. Tumbling. 

Falling.

*****

The moment he saw it happen, he couldn't hold back anymore. 

Crushing all the restraints, demolishing all the boundaries, breaking the walls of the glass house they were sitting in John rushed forwards. It felt too slow, but he couldn't be too late again. 

He started to run. Metres, centimetres? He didn't care. 

Reaching out his arms he jumped forwards, his knees hitting the floor, hard. He didn't care.

Feeling the heavy body slump against his chest he felt the air being knocked out of him, leaving his lungs with a sob. There he was. Solid in his arms. Feeling so small. But real, existent, alive.

This time he hadn't been late. He had been there to catch him.

*****

The last thing Sherlock felt before darkness took over were strong arms closing around him. Holding him firmly.

A wet cheek pressed against his own. A whisper to his ear.

_“I'm here, Sherlock. I’ve got you.”_

  
*****end of part 1*****   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/49tpIMDy9BE)
> 
> * * *
> 
> The story Sherlock is thinking of while walking back to Baker Street is from a children's book that is very dear to me. It's called "Momo" written by Michael Ende. Check it out:
> 
> <http://michaelende.de/en/book/momo-0>
> 
> * * *
> 
> The inspiration for Greg's boat comes from Rupert's hilarious movie "Swimming With Men", in which his character lives on a houseboat, too. 
> 
> [watch trailer here](https://youtu.be/f495YKIfuaw)
> 
>   
> Imagine my delight, when I discovered that there is a pier close to Battersea Power station!! I was fortunate to visit London not long ago (at that point Greg's boat was already written and a core element of the story) and of course I went looking for Greg's boat!! Real Life Research. And you know what?? I found it!! It was an indescribable moment...  
> So, here it is: 
> 
> * * *
> 
> The second story mentioned (by John) is the fairytale "The Red Shoes" by H.C. Andersen.  
> [information here](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Red_Shoes_\(fairy_tale\))  
> [pdf with story here](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&url=https://andersen.sdu.dk/moocfiles/redshoes.pdf&ved=2ahUKEwi7rOH6uqnoAhXiQkEAHVaPCp0QFjAMegQIChAB&usg=AOvVaw1wyfBJ0QXQF9SrCo2ASOkA)  
> 
> 
> The movie adaptation is a classic under the same name "The Red Shoes" starring prima ballerina Moira Shearer whom I admire!!  
> [information here](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Red_Shoes_\(1948_film\))  
> [and here](http://www.screenonline.org.uk/film/id/438387/)


	7. Angel With A Shotgun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steadying himself on the walls on his way to the kitchen his fingertips made out the soothing feeling of the pattern of the wallpaper. Grounding, no imagination, in touch with reality.
> 
> But reality was floating when the fading scent of fresh roasted toast tricked him into expecting to hear the familiar sound of John clattering on in the kitchen - even though the quietness of the flat told him that he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I want to send a BIG "Thank You" towards my wonderful betas for their unimaginable patience with me and my very loveis-like last minute nervous breakdowns. Both of you are invaluable to this fic and to me personally!! 💜💜
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

*****Part 2***  
** **You  
**

He woke with a groan.

He couldn't remember why, but his whole body felt sore. He was lying in bed and didn't dare to move. Not before he was sure what had happened to him.

Eyes closed, starting with a terrible headache, Sherlock mentally scanned his body for further damage. Doing so it was as if he could feel every single one of the 700 muscles and 206 bones in his body. He checked them one by one while naming them, making sure his brain wasn't affected by whatever has caused his current state. But he couldn't detect any signs of major injuries or fractures. Nevertheless he felt like he had been struck by a truck, as if he had hit the pavement.

Maybe that was it. Maybe his plan had gone wrong and he had been lying in hospital ever since. Has everything he thought he remembered just been a coma induced dream?

This was a quite appealing thought, as it meant nothing of the horror he recalled would have been real.

There wouldn't have been his own funeral, there wouldn't have been leaving John, there wouldn't have been captivity and torture, there wouldn't have been a wedding. No being shot at, no John being hurt again, no loss of John's friendship…

One day - today? - he would just wake up and leave all that behind. But where would that leave him? What would have happened since? How long would it have been? And most important: would John even be around after what Sherlock had done?

The one thing he was absolutely certain of wouldn’t change under any circumstances, was the warm feeling which spread through his chest thinking of said man. It was comforting and devastating at the same time now he could recognise it for what it was.

That at least hadn't been a dream. Or maybe it had but the result was all the same.

He was so sure of it now. He knew without any doubt. He only wondered why he had never realised before.

Unfortunately, this chain of thoughts brought back the memory of recent events after all. And as much as he wished to, he had to admit that it all felt much too real to have been a dream.

_'No coma then'_ , Sherlock thought. _'Pity'_.

Not every memory was clear. Some were blurred, some were distorted, some were out of reach.

He could remember dark clammy back alleys, he could remember gaunt faces with paper like crumpled skin. He could remember sore feet from walking miles on end, he could remember unfamiliar corners and streets. He could remember thirst and pain and violins.

But he didn't know. Couldn't remember. Didn't understand. Why was he here? How?

From the softness of the mattress and the fabric of the blanket, from the familiar sounds of the London traffic and the angle of the light falling into the room he knew exactly where he was. He was at Baker Street, in his own bed, under his own covers.

He could feel his favourite pyjama bottoms clinging to his legs under the duvet and gliding over his bare butt when he shifted a little. So no pants. And no tee covering his upper body either. His bare chest was rubbing against the cotton of the sheets, painfully reminding him of the plain difference to other sheets he was shielding under not a very long time ago.

He could physically feel the absence of the scratch and could barely stand the soft caressing of the high thread count fabric of the duvet cover. He nearly craved to be back there. Didn’t it mean oblivion and bliss despite all the hassle? But who’d care about the surroundings when everything faded out and left the mind so delightfully blank.

Cherishing this feeling for a moment he slowly became aware of the substance of his thoughts. Very literally speaking.

His head snapped up, his eyes forced open. He needed a moment to get the dizziness out of his head. Sherlock's gaze fixed on the crook of his arm. He tried to digest the sight of bruising marks tainting his skin in rainbow colors - varying from purple to green and yellow. He stared in disgust but couldn't tear his look away. He felt something drop inside him, some sinking feeling and with it he sank back in his pillow, staring into the void. Finally he closed his eyes again to break the spell.

After a long moment he tried to clear his mind, blinking his eyes open.

There was something his brain didn't catch up to. He could feel it in the twist of his thoughts, in the tangle of memories. But while trying to sit up he realised that there wasn't any energy left to nurture his neurons, to spread their information and form any coherent deduction.

He surrendered.

Placing his feet on the cold wooden floor he hissed, a chill creeping up his shins. Goosebumps made his skin tingle, and there was an unknown thrum in his ears. A sort of numbness damping all his senses.

Sherlock could feel the breeze sneaking through the gap of the half closed window drying the sweat on his damp skin. He was exhausted.

On the bedside table he discovered an open pack of paracetamol and a glass of water.

After having swallowed two of them, feeling the scratch of them all the way down his irritated throat, Sherlock stood, grabbed his dressing gown and made his way out of the bedroom on wobbly legs.

He wanted to ignore the bathroom on his way to the kitchen, but his bladder told him otherwise. So he gave in and made it through a quick morning routine even if it probably was around lunch time already.

Why wasn’t he able to deduce? He always had been. But his senses didn’t want to cooperate. Memories, dreams, hopes, fears all melting together into one pulp of blurry consciousness.

Steadying himself on the walls on his way to the kitchen his fingertips made out the soothing feeling of the pattern of the wallpaper. Grounding, no imagination, in touch with reality.

But reality was floating when the fading scent of fresh roasted toast tricked him into expecting to hear the familiar sound of John clattering on in the kitchen - even though the quietness of the flat told him that he was alone.

Nonetheless pictures surfaced of John setting the kettle, shouting down the hallway if Sherlock fancied a cup of tea, not realising that Sherlock already stood leaning against the refrigerator, smiling bemused.

The domesticity of these thoughts, this memory, made something stir inside of him, getting tangled up in the undefined foggy feeling of wrongness.

Still wondering why his senses played cruel games with him, Sherlock entered the kitchen and found it deserted. Even when this was what he had expected, his shoulders sagged a bit and he felt the stab of loss with a force that made him stumble the last steps into the kitchen.

Only then he realised that the kitchen table was cleaned from the experiment, which he had abandoned by storming off that whenever-it-had-been morning.

Instead there was a plate and knife laid out ready to use, his favourite kind of honey at its side and bread already waiting in the toaster to be browned. The kettle was filled, the tea bag already settled in the cup.

There were two yellow post-it notes stuck on first the plate and second the kettle - the same notes he used to plaster his deduction walls with. They read “ _EAT!!!_ ” and “ _drink_ ”.

It wasn't much. But it made Sherlock's heart flutter nonetheless.

These two silly notes in John's neat stocky writing, scribbled down in doctor-y haste, were more than Sherlock had ever expected to see from John again his life. And it was nearly more than he could bear.

John had been here. Recently. While he had been sleeping. How long had he been sleeping?

Sherlock was disappointed that he had missed John and relieved at the same time. Not sure if he would have been able to face John but was craving it nonetheless.

Still, John had been here with him. So John knew about Sherlock’s... ‘state’?

Was this also how he had gotten back here? But how would John have known where to find him? Why would he even bother? Had it been John bringing him here?

All of a sudden Sherlock was awfully aware of his bare torso and naked bum underneath his pyjama pants. He hadn’t done this himself, had he? Someone had undressed him. Surely it hadn’t been… had it?

He groaned in frustration and glided his fingers through his curls, only to grip them hard the next moment. He couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember anything?

Realising he couldn’t do anything about it at the moment he looked back around the kitchen.

Never having been able to deny John's efforts of coaxing him into eating, Sherlock made his way to the kitchen counter. He pushed down the handle of the toaster and set the kettle.

And if he was honest with himself he could do with some food.

His legs were weak and his hands shaking while preparing his breakfast and he was relieved when he could finally sit down. This bit of effort already felt like running a marathon.

How long since he had last eaten?

He gave up his attempts to remember for the moment as even his brain seemed to need food.

After finishing his toast in thinking-silence, Sherlock stood and made his way to the sofa. Leaning on the door frame to the sitting room he stopped.

The room was tidied up. Same as the kitchen, nothing of the clutter he had left behind was left where it had been. His music stand where it should be, books and papers stockpiled in the bookshelves disguising the gaps left behind where John's books had been. Suddenly Sherlock remembered the box, the John box, and he frantically searched the room with his eyes but it was nowhere to be seen. Where could it be? Upstairs? In John's room… _'well… the other bedroom upstairs'_ , Sherlock thought sourly. _'Won't be needing two now.'_ Should he go get the box? He was still curious what else would be hidden under piles of Sherlock's death notes. But no. He couldn't fathom that just yet. 

Sherlock's gaze scanned over the neatly folded blanket on the chair which once had been John's, the unfamiliar detective story on the side table which certainly didn't belong to Sherlock's book collection, the carefully sorted slides next to the microscope now taking up most of the space on the living room table. 

Narrowing his eyes he took in the pile of sofa cushions. He himself was prone to piling them up when he needed to go to his mind palace, picking all the cushions he could find, nestling into them and lying there for hours.

But this was all wrong.

The pile was on the wrong end of the sofa. At the back end near the little bookshelf, near the goddamn stereo, near the windows.

Wrong side.

All of this screamed ‘John’.

John, always the soldier, always the warrior, never turning his back to the danger, always facing the door, always prepared for the enemy to enter - most of all in his… sleep?

John had slept here? Here - neither wherever he lived now nor in his upstairs bedroom. So close... and Sherlock hadn’t been aware of it.

Confused and overwhelmed by his own feelings Sherlock made his way over to the sofa and let himself slump onto it.

Head on the pile of cushions. Wrong side. But a lingering scent of cheap Tesco shampoo, tea and home washed cotton shirts worn one day too long wavered into his awareness. He found that he didn’t care about anything else right now.

Somehow he gravitated to it like the moon to the earth, like a moth to the light, like an oxygen molecule to another creating the air that kept him alive. Suddenly breathing wasn’t that boring any more.

Reveling in the scent surrounding him, he steepled his fingers underneath his chin in the attempt to make sense of any of it. In the hope that his now nurtured brain would be of any use at all he started ascending to his mind palace.

Bracing himself, he pushed open the doors to his John-room and stopped dead. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

The room was desolated, wrecked. Shelves were pushed over, papers that have been sorted were now all over the place. And the photographs he had pinned to the walls neatly arranged by date and occurrence were now dangling on a net of annoyingly bright coloured ropes and cords crossing the room from one wall to the other.

He had to bend over to even make it into the room and still he got tangled in the cords and make the whole net shiver, photographs falling, floating in the air, suddenly rearranging themselves, spinning before his eyes.

Oh god, what a mess. How would he ever be able to sort this again.

He couldn’t make out anything throughout this chaos of data let alone find a safe place for his new impressions.

Everything seemed out of context, out of place and Sherlock felt utterly lost in between the overwhelming amount of John around him.

He stood there in the middle of his room, frozen in place, when a cautious “Whoo-hoo!” and a hesitant knock at his door interrupted him.

Groaning he opened his eyes again but didn’t even look at Mrs Hudson who peered through a slowly opening door.

“Oh Sherlock, you’re up!” She said with a hint of relief in her voice, clasping her hands in front of her purple dress.

“Yes. Obviously.” Sherlock answered, not very keen on talking. To anyone actually.

“I heard movement up here.” She stated.

“What even is your point, Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock snapped and finally gazed at her. He felt a bit guilty by the look on her face, but how dare she interrupt him uninvited.

“Well… I _have_ been worried.” She admitted, a bit insecure, letting it sound like a question.

When Sherlock didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes and looked away again, she added: “And not just me, you know?” There was a hint more stubborness in her voice now. Sherlock sighed.

“John wouldn’t leave your side the whole time.” She took a step into the flat and Sherlock’s widening eyes snapped back to her.

“He asked me if he could stay here until… as long as needed” She trailed of, a puzzled look on her face, brows furrowed. "Silly man, why would he ask?" She glanced at Sherlock. “Do you know what that's about?”

But Sherlock hadn’t heard her. He stared at the wall across from him.

“The whole time… how long is that exactly, Mrs Hudson?” he asked blankly, trying to keep all emotion out of his voice.

“Well, you know, both nights he’s slept on the sofa and he didn’t even change his clothes. Stupid boy. Why didn’t he even take a shower? He has everything he needs right here.” Mrs Hudson chattered on while retreating to the kitchen and starting to clean the table of Sherlock’s dishes. She huffed a little laugh, shaking her head.

“Checked on you constantly. But he himself didn’t even bother to eat. I made scones for him. He didn’t eat them. What a waste. Would you believe that, Sherlock. Scones! I mean, it’s John. I didn’t think I would live to that day…” She wasn’t aware of Sherlock’s face paling and just rambled on and muttered curses under her breath. Probably about all the effort she had put in the scones.

But the only thing Sherlock could concentrate on was ‘two nights’. Two nights, so probably two days in total.

Two days John had been back home. Close to Sherlock. Checking on him. Caring for him.

Sherlock stifled his voice and exhaled slowly before the pain forming in his chest could escape and form any sort of sound.

Closing his eyes, he let his head sink deeper into the cushions and tried to shut out the world.

“Where is he?” was the only thing he could get out after a while.

“What, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked, interrupted in her tirad of chatter she was currently engaging in.

“Where is he now? Why did he leave?” Sherlock repeated impatiently, eyes still closed.

“He just headed to the shops. Said you’ve run out of everything - as always.” She giggled a bit. “He said you were better today. Told me to keep an eye on you. But he didn’t sound too happy to leave actually... now I think about it.” She tilted her head a bit in thought and looked at Sherlock.

At that precise moment they heard a key in the front door and the rustling of thin plastic bags set down on the floor.

Sherlock tensed.

Mrs Hudson whirled around, a bit dramatically as she used to do, and rushed down the stairs as fast as her hip allowed her.

“Ah, John, good. You’re back.” Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson slightly out of breath, trying to keep her tone light.

“Yeah, I…” John’s voice was a bit muffled through the half opened door, but Sherlock could still sense the short hesitation, the moment realisation dawned on him.

“Is he… I mean… is he up?” John asked with a mix of emotions in his voice Sherlock couldn’t quite fathom at this point.

“Yes. Yes, he’s up. And his own old self again. As snarky as ever…” Sherlock could literally feel the wink she gave John. Apparently she was expecting to provoke some easiness, but all that happened was John clearing his throat.

“Right. Uhm… his old self.” Sherlock could hear him huff. "Great. Just… great." Sherlock's imagination pictured John rubbing a hand over the short hair in his neck as he always did when he was uncomfortable.

Sherlock was holding his breath.

“Well then… I’ll just… yeah, would you….” he trailed off, clearing his throat again. “I mean… would you mind bringing these up to him?” Rustling of the bags indicated that John was apparently handing them over. “Only if it’s not too heavy, of course!” He hurried to add.

Considerate John as always, but Sherlock could still sense the hope that it wouldn’t be too heavy after all.

“Are you leaving, dear?” sounded Mrs Hudson’s surprised and confused voice up the stairs.

“Yeah…” An awkward silence followed and after a moment John silently continued. “Will you say hello, for me?” But he seemed to overthink it. “No. Actually… don’t. Just… bring him… that. Make sure he’s eating.” John’s voice sounded defeated, a bit breathless.

After a moment of silence in which Sherlock cursed the noise of his own shallow breath, he could hear that John was speaking again. “Please? Would you do that? For me?” a hint of desperation swinging in the air.

“Of course, dear! Of course!” Mrs Hudson said in her motherly caring tone. Sherlock could hear a rustle of fabric and could picture her engulfing John in her very own kind of embrace nobody could ever escape.

And with that the front door was opened and closed again.

In a whirl of limbs and dressing gown and flying cushions Sherlock leaped from the sofa to rush to the window, knocking over everything on the couch table over which he was jumping.

He pulled the curtain to one side and his eyes frantically searched the street only to see John still oscillating on the pavement in front of the door - approaching, turning away only to falter the next moment and turn back again. Once he even reached for the knocker - _'why for god’s sake would he knock?'_ \- but his arm fell limbless to his side after a moment of hesitation.

Then he turned one last time, squared his shoulders and marched away in the direction of Marylebone road.

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, not even knowing what he had expected or hoped for. Although he couldn’t deny that it hurt to see John walk away. He didn't know if any other outcome would have hurt less, but this one sure as hell did.

“Sherlock. What have you done, you silly boy?”

Sherlock startled when she slapped him on the shoulder. Somehow Mrs Hudson had appeared out of thin air next to him.

“You don’t even care, do you? That’s really rude, even for your standards! That poor lovely doctor…” She shakes her head in pity. Suddenly she was raising her voice again and placing her hands on her hips.

“You’re going to do something about that, young man! Or I’ll have to whip some sense into that silly old brain of yours! And believe me, mister,” she waved an angry finger in front of his nose, “I will. I’ve not been an exotic dancer for nothing! I know my whips!” She resolutely nodded her head, let the bags with groceries nothing but thump on the floor and headed down the stairs without another word.

Sherlock was left dumbfounded. Only when he regained some composure he started to make his way back to the sofa to fold himself under a blanket and sulk for the rest of the day.

He bumped his toe on a mug he had knocked over and he crouched to pick it up again. He hissed due to the pain shooting through his legs, being awfully reminded of his sore muscles and tired body. Remaining in the crouch to let the pain ease he randomly picked up scattered items and let his gaze roam the floor.

A little whitish roll lying under the sofa caught his eye. He frowned, leaned forward and crawled over until he could reach under the sofa to fish out the little object. His back and shoulders ached when he stretched his arm to reach it. Poking at it with his fingertips he rolled it slowly forward and grabbed it as soon as it was within reach.

It was some sort of crinkled paper but it was wrapped around something solid in its centre. It was secured with a thin elastic. 

Sitting back on his heels on the floor, Sherlock removed the elastic and unfolded the paper.

He could see that it had been folded many times, crumpled and smoothed out again. It had coffee stains all over it, but the pencil writing was still readable. It was erased and written again, parts crossed out only to repeat them the next moment.

On the basis of the swing of the letters and the force with which the pencil had been pressed to the paper he could detect that it was written in several sections.

This letter was a mess.

Still, Sherlock would be able to decipher it under any circumstances. Hadn’t he studied this handwriting a thousand times and had a whole folder storing all it’s details secured in his mind palace. The notes in there may be a bit rumpled now, he mused, remembering the state of his John room.

John. They were John’s words. Sherlock’s hands holding the piece of paper started to tremble.

He totally ignored the object falling into his lap that the elastic had held in place and started reading. ****

> _Sherlock,_
> 
> _Actually, I don’t even know what to_ ~~_say_~~ _write. Hell,_ ~~_I don’t even know if you’ll read it anyway_ ~~_But I can’t stand it. You. Lying there. All silent and I have so much to say. I don’t even know what, but I’m bursting with all the things we didn't say. I didn’t say? Do you still have things to say? To me?_ ~~_good god I’m rambling_~~
> 
> _Anyway. Maybe this is not really the right moment but. Sherlock, I’ve been there. I saw you. I don’t know if you remember, but I’ve been there. Why didn’t you tell me? About all that? And then I don’t just mean_ ~~_the dru_~~ _why you felt the way you did. But also… Dancing, Sherlock? Why didn’t I know THAT?_ ~~_What do you take me f_ ~~_You could have trusted me. With all of it._ _~~I’ll always support you. With everything. that is a bit soppy. but true though~~ _
> 
> _I don’t know if the song you danced to is anything to go by... I’ve got the feeling it is actually... but... I think I understand. Maybe._
> 
> _You know I’ve always been sure that that sociopath thing is rubbish. You know that!_ ~~_I’ve seen so much m_~~ _You’re more than that! I know. I just didn’t know that you were searching that desperately for_ ~~_someone else_ ~~_someone._ ~~_I know our friendship can’t fulfill all_~~ _But you deserve that Sherlock. You really do!_
> 
> _Sherlock, I’ll support you! If you need someone_ ~~_other than_~~ _at your side, something additional in your life, I would be the last person to complain. You know that. It’s all fine ~~.~~_ ~~_And even if I can’t_ ~~_I can even ~~give you~~_ ~~_a hand_~~ _help you along the way._
> 
> _But at least let me have your back! That’s what I always do. That’s what I’m here for!_
> 
> _That's_ ~~_the only_~~ _the one thing I can do. Be the soldier that I used to be. And that means to hell with what happens to me._
> 
> _I’ve always been_ _~~your guardian angel shit that’s cheesy~~ _ _your guardian angel._
> 
> _You know… like... You don’t have to see me, if you don’t want to. (That’s what you want, right? I get that._ _~~I don’t lik~~ _ _It’s okay.) But I’ll still be there anyway. Watch over you. You do you and I’ll keep you safe._
> 
> _Deal?_
> 
> _I’ll be happy when you’re happy, Sherlock._
> 
> _Remember?_
> 
> _#sherlockholmeslives = #johnwatsonlives_
> 
> _It’s true._
> 
> _John_
> 
> _~~Okay, I’ll never ever no way give this soppy shit to you. figure out how I get that player back to you then. post it I think~~ _

Sherlock stared at the letter in his hands. What had he just read? It was for him. Addressed to him at least. But he wasn’t meant to read it? What was it John tried to say? And even more, what was it that he tried to hide?

It was too much for Sherlock to wrap his mind around at the moment.

All this confusing sentiment.

John being here, John being gone. John writing a letter to Sherlock, John not wanting Sherlock to read it.

Why was all this so complicated? He had always been of the opinion that it all was nothing but simple chemistry. If that would be true he had found a solution long ago. Literally…

How wrong he had been.

Sighing, Sherlock dropped his gaze from the letter and his eyes fell on the thing, which had been wrapped in John’s letter, currently lying in his lap.

A dusty, dirty, scratched mp3 player. His mp3 player.

Memories forced themselves in between the chaos of his thoughts. Shop, cafe, drug den. He cringed at that thought. And then… dancing. Endless dancing.

He must have forgotten it. Of course he had. After all, he didn't even remember when he had stopped dancing.

A thought popped up. John must have been there to collect the mp3 player - afterwards. John had been there. He had seen Sherlock dance. 

A strange mix of unease and relief washed through Sherlock. So it must have been John who had brought him back home. 

His mind snapped back to the moment he woke up … _'in bed_ ( _of course in bed where else)'..._ Sherlock rolled his eyes at himself. Wincing he felt a faint blush creep up his cheeks ... _'no pants'…_ the thought of gently sturdy hands undressing him made his nerves light up, made something in his belly stir and quiver. He tried to calm it, pressed his flat hand on the spot just below his navel under which the turmoil only flourished even more … _'bare torso'…_ the warmth of his hand diffused like a thin layer over his skin, covering it with the tingling imagination of the gaze of dark hazel-blue eyes caressing every inch of his body. He couldn't help but gasp as his bodily sensations manifested themselves in very physical evidence of how affected he was … _'two whole days'…_ all of it had been John after all. And he had stayed. With Sherlock. What a wasted opportunity. He slid the hand from his belly lower and groaned when he finally pressed it against his groin. Stupid. _Stupid._

This was what you get when you let all the barriers down. This stupid reaction to mere imagination was getting him nowhere and would only cause more pain than there already was anyway. It was pointless to even indulge in fantasies. It's not as if there would ever be the slightest hope that this silly sentiment would be reciprocated. There was no chance it would ever become reality. John would never… not ever… of course he wouldn't. He wasn't gay. He had articulated that often enough, continuously, explicitly. That wouldn't change just because Sherlock wanted it to. Oh, and how he wished it would, now more than ever. At the same time, it was now more out of reach than ever before. It would always stay an unattainable dream.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He had to get himself back under control. He had kept the longing at bay for such a long time, endured John Watson's close physical proximity without giving in to his desire to reach out, to lean in, to… Stop. _Stop!!_

He inhaled shakily, held his breath to calm down and blew it out again through pursed lips. He repeated it again and again until he could feel his racing heart slow down. A technique he had often applied against anxiety attacks. In pre-John times. Also during in-between-John times. John Watson was a perfect remedy against anxiety attacks. Now apparently, he had to revive the old methods, reintegrate them in his repertoire to survive life. 

He stayed a while where he was, kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa. He breathed a while. He survived a while. Until the world in front of his eyes took shape again.)

From his crouching position he made out a glimpse of black leather. Hidden behind the sofa, tightly stuffed into a corner was a doctor's bag. John's, obviously. But Sherlock had never seen it before. But of course John would have one, he had ‘cared’ for Sherlock after all. Maybe his old scruffy one which he had used so often to stitch Sherlock up after cases had been worn out. Probably. Doesn't matter. This was just Sherlock's muddy brain trying to deduce… he should stop trying today. Frustrating.

His eyes fixed on the mp3 player again, the evidence of John having been there with him, something else made its way to his awareness.

What was it John had written in his letter? _‘I don’t know if the song you danced to is anything to go by…’._

Sherlock could still feel the song waver through his mind, knew the lyrics by heart. But he was curious to listen to it and to imagine being in John’s place instead. How might John have experienced it, heard it?

He rolled the device in his right hand, thinking, weighing. Would it be wise to go back there? Useless to pretend that it wouldn’t stir the maelstrom of emotions he had gone through these last few days. Was it worth it when it all had just calmed down a bit?

But he wanted to understand John. He _needed_ to understand John. Without it he felt as if he were floating in the void. Lost all grip.

He took a deep breath and cautiously pressed the power button. As expected there was only one song available, he had uploaded it himself after all.

Preparing for the familiar sounds of winding up clockworks, [he pressed play](https://youtu.be/9YuO6np8Ma8) and he closed his eyes.

They immediately flew open again when he was taken by surprise by the almost spheric sounds of some sort of electronic music and a choir starting to sing.

This was not what he had expected. Take John to surprise him, as so often.

Same as with the unexpected letter, Sherlock had no other choice than to let it wash over him and bear through it.

****

**_Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah_ **

**_(I'm an angel with a shotgun shotgun_** ** _shotgun_ **

**_angel with a shotgun shotgun shotgun)_ **

Immediately a compilation of images flooded Sherlock’s mind of all the occasions John had been there at his side, gun ready to fire, the Captain Watson demeanour transferring without any doubt better not to mess with him.

And still… and still…

John had tried so hard. Had saved Sherlock's life countless times. In so many different ways. But that last threat to Sherlock’s life he had never understood. He would never succeed to take that away. Never in a life they both lived in…

****

**_Get out your guns, battles begun_ **

**_Are you a saint, or a sinner?_ **

****

Saint or Sinner.

Save souls now, John or James Watson? Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is Less?

That was exactly it. The biggest threat to his life. And to John’s life. But wasn’t that the exact same thing?  
  
Moriarty. Everything always seemed to come back to Moriarty in the end. Moriarty really was playing posthumous games with him.

What was Sherlock anyway? Saint? Surely not? Sinner? In all the ways possible.

But he didn’t want to be one, for John. Not for John. But he also couldn’t be the hero that John had so desperately wanted to see in him, once. He couldn’t. Because he wasn’t.

****

**_If loves a fight, than I shall die_ **

**_With my heart on a trigger_ **

****

He would have died. It had been his heart on the trigger. He would have done it. Pulled the trigger. Died. But only together with John. But he hadn't. Because of John. How was he supposed to knowingly… _willingly…_ risk John's life? 

_'Unspoken words. Unspoken understanding. A short nod. Blue shimmering eyes. Deep as the sea. Blue as the pool. Holding mine. Decision made.'_

They’d die together, they would have. Better die together than Moriarty taking John away.  
How was Sherlock supposed to go on living afterwards. But hadn’t that been the whole point of Moriarty's cruel game?

****

**_They say before you start a war_ **

**_You better know what you're fighting for_ **

****

_'Do you, John? Do you really? Are you aware that this is a war that can’t be won? The thing you’re trying to fight for is not what you suspect it to be. At least not the way you’re assuming. There's nothing to win?'_

****

**_Well baby, you are all that I adore_ **

**_If love is what you need, a soldier I will be_ **

****

_'Baby?… Adore?… Did he just… ?'_

_'No. No, he didn’t. This was the song. It wasn’t exactly John who had written it, was he?'_

_'God, Holmes, don’t let your imagination run wild just because you’d want it to be real. Don’t jump to conclusions. Stick to the facts.'_

_'Is it love I need? Love for love’s sake?_ _  
__Not just any love, John, not just any… You can’t save me from myself.'_

****

**_I'm an angel with a shotgun_ **

**_Fighting til' the wars won_ **

**_I don't care if heaven won't take me back_ **

****

_'I know you won’t ever give up willingly. But that’s the problem._ _  
__When will you get tired of it? When will the moment come when you’ll stop fighting? And leave, after all…'_

_'John, oh John, don’t waste your life on me. Because you are. You are an angel, that’s what you’ve said yourself, haven’t you? And I'm not. If any, I'm the fallen one…'_

****

**_I'll throw away my faith, babe,_**

**_just to keep you safe_ **

**_Don't you know you're everything I have?_ **

_'I wish that would be true! It’s not, John.'_

_'Without me, you would have had a future, a life!_ **_'_ **

****

**_And I, wanna live, not just survive, tonight_ **

****

_'Please, John, please do! Go, live your life!_ _  
__Because it’s true, what you wrote! I’m happy when you’re happy!_ _  
__And survive you must. And if that means I have to live, I will! But please, please, go. Be happy.'_

****

**_Sometimes to win, you've got to sin_ **

**_Don't mean I'm not a believer_ **

**_And major Tom, will sing along_ **

**_Yeah, they still say I'm a dreamer_ **

****

_'Oh god. John, always the romantic. Of course he would do that. He would throw his life away, just for this. Because he’s a dreamer. He wouldn’t listen to reason.'_

Sherlock slowly sank forwards until his forehead rested on the floor. John’s letter was still crumpled in his fist.

It was too much, he couldn’t bear it.

He tried to breathe calmly, closed his eyes and listened. Just listened and tried to make sense of it all. How could he get them both out of this unharmed? How could he keep John safe? Because that’s all he ever wanted, that’s all he ever fought for.

The rest of the song washed over him, raising the same questions over and over again.

****

**_They say before you start a war_ **

**_You better know what you're fighting for_ **

****

_'What is worth fighting for?'_

Sherlock knew. He had done it.  
John, and only ever John.

But did John know what _he_ was fighting for? Something that didn’t even exist.  
He had to understand. But he didn’t have to know.  
If John would know what Sherlock really wanted him to fight for, for what Sherlock would willingly surrender, it would ruin everything!

****

**_Well baby, you are all that I adore_ **

**_If love is what you need, a soldier I will be_ **

****

_'Adoration is not vicious enough a motivator to start a war. Not for you John. With your strong moral principles. You can’t do that.'_

_'I won’t let you.'_

****

**_I'm an angel with a shotgun_ **

**_Fighting til' the wars won_ **

**_I don't care if heaven won't take me back_ **

**_I'll throw away my faith, babe,_**

**_just to keep you safe_ **

**_Don't you know you're everything I have?_ **

****

Every single situation in which John had saved his life rolled past Sherlock’s inner eye.

In this flood of memories others seemed to slide in from the side lines. One strand of thoughts plaiting together with another. Lacing, getting entangled, locking into each other. A whole chain of memories forming a path. A red thread.

Suddenly he realised the way John had _actually_ saved his life.  
Not only by his gun, not only physically, but all the memory of John, the thought of how he would react, softly judge Sherlock, kept Sherlock right. The dreadful feeling of never seeing him again had kept Sherlock alive. How it had provided him to do something stupid. How it had helped him suffer through pain and torture.

**_And I, wanna live, not just survive, tonight_ **

**_Oh, oh whoa whoa oh whoa_ **

**_I'm an angel with a shotgun_ **

**_Fighting til' the wars won_ **

**_I don't care if heaven won't take me back_ **

****

He realised that John was right. It was absolutely true what he had written in his letter. 

John was his guardian angel.

**_I'm an angel with a shotgun_ **

**_Fighting til' the wars won_ **

**_I don't care if heaven won't take me back_ **

****

He had always known that he needed John, he had known that John kept him alive. That he had to live for John.

But he hadn’t realised until now that he lived through John. John was the blood running through his veins, the air he breathed. John was his life.

**_I'll throw away my faith, babe,_**

**_just to keep you safe_ **

**_Don't you know you're everything I have?_ **

**_(I'm an angel with a shotgun)_ **

****

Sherlock craved to have John here with him for whatever John was willing to give. And apparently this was the one thing he was willing to give to Sherlock. That much he had understood from John’s letter.

But wasn’t that extremely selfish? Keep John close for his own sake? How could he ask this of John? When John so clearly understood it as his duty only?

Realisation of what he had to do slowly dawned on him.

Sherlock forced his breath slowly in and out, not moving otherwise.  
Just staying there, just breathing, just existing.

**_And I, want to live, not just survive, tonight_ **

**_And I'm gonna hide, hide,_**

**_hide my wings tonight_ **

****

_'You can’t John. You don’t have to. Don’t hide.'_

****

**_They say before you start a war_ **

**_You better know what you're fighting for_ **

**_Well baby, you are all that I adore_ **

**_If love is what you need, a soldier I will be_ **

****

****Sherlock exhaled one more time.

What was the saying? If you love something, let it go? If you love someone, set them free?

He opened his eyes. He stood and straightened his back.  
Briefly he wondered what had happened to the dizziness from earlier, where the sudden clearness had come from. 

_'These days, not even the hangovers last',_ Sherlock thought bitterly.

He shook his head to get rid of unwanted thoughts. The newly gained determination forced him forward.  
Slowly but steadily he walked over to his chair, grabbed his laptop and flipped it open. Watching the screen lighten, he cautiously placed his fingers on the keyboard and started typing.

_'Okay then… soldiers today!'_

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/9YuO6np8Ma8)


	8. 21 Guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Greg handed him a cup of tea John looked up at his friend and was met with a tentative but friendly and open smile. He saw that Greg had already changed his formal Yard-attire to his more comfortable private clothes. Frowning, he looked at the cup in his and then to the sink, where the dirty dishes had miraculously vanished. Greg must have had enough time to do all that and John hadn’t noticed anything, too engrossed in the email he had been reading, too lost in his mind. Was that what Sherlock had always felt like when lost in his mind palace? Did John miss him that badly that he was already taking over habits. Just great, apparently his whole damn life was taken over by the man. But then, what was new about that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers and friends,  
> I sincerely hope, that you're all still well and safe! My thoughts are with everyone who suffers illness, anxiety, financial problems or any other worries, sorrows or troubles in these trying times.  
> Thank you for being here and following this story despite all of that. I hope that reading fanfic helps to distract your mind at least a bit from everydays craziness! Sending you all a lot of *big squishy cuddles*!!
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

He was reading it for the hundredth time when the friendly hand on his shoulder made John jump. He slammed his laptop shut with much more force than necessary.

"Hey John," Greg said cautiously as if to prevent exactly what had just happened, to spook John. "I see you're back then..." The question mark at the end badly hidden.

"Obviously." John answered flatly, even though it hadn't even been a question. He was aware of the sarcastic undertone caused by the exhaustion of mind and soul, but Greg didn't seem to bother. 

When Greg handed him a cup of tea John looked up at his friend and was met with a tentative but friendly and open smile. He saw that Greg had already changed his formal Yard-attire to his more comfortable private clothes. Frowning, he looked at the cup in his and then to the sink, where the dirty dishes had miraculously vanished. Greg must have had enough time to do all that and John hadn’t noticed anything, too engrossed in the email he had been reading, too lost in his mind. Was that what Sherlock had always felt like when lost in his mind palace? Did John miss him that badly that he was already taking over habits. Just great, apparently his whole damn life was taken over by the man. But then, what was new about that?

“All right?” Greg’s worried voice asked behind John’s back and he realised he had drifted off once again. 

“Yes. Yes, all right. I'm fine. Fine.” John tried to convince Greg with a forced smile.

"I just wondered, where…," Greg was about to say, when John quickly interrupted him, holding up one hand but dropping his chin on his chest.

"Don't… don't ask… just don't, okay?" he said intently, shaking his head subtly.

"Alright…," Greg stretched the word like chewing gum, drawing his brows together, trying to make any sense of it. “Still… you look like shite, man.” Greg frowned.

“Well, thank you? I guess.” John tried to keep it light and attempted a half laugh for the sake of it.

“No, I mean it, mate. Not seen you like this for, well… quite a while.” Greg said, a bit uneasy but serious. "Bad news?" Greg nodded towards the now closed laptop.

“No! No, no!" John negated much too eagerly. When Greg eyed him suspiciously, John quickly added: "You know, just quickly checking my inbox. Lost track and all now I’m not working and stuff…,” he made one more lame attempt, but the words died on his lips the moment he saw the sceptical raised eyebrow on his friends face.

“John,” Greg said, bowing his head a bit to look John firmly in the eye, “first of all, there’s barely a time you're _not_ checking on your phone every few minutes, and-“, here he raised a hand to stop John from interrupting, “ – AND I know for sure that you get notifications for all your accounts. Even for Sherlock’s, goddammit. So stop that bullshit!” he took a breath and his look lost the sharp edge.

With a much more gentle voice he added, “And second…,” he trailed off and John thought that he'd even sense a hint of guilt in the tension that his friend suddenly radiated. Greg sighed. 

“Second…. I’ve been home for more than half an hour now, and…,” he winced a bit and threw a hesitant and sheepish gaze in John’s direction, “… I saw you.” he admitted. “The whole time you were staring at that same screen there. So unless that mail is written in Sanskrit…,” he aimed for a joke but it fell flat.

John just stared at his closed laptop.

“John, what’s going on here?” Greg squeezed John’s shoulder reassuringly. “Let me help.” he said, but it sounded much more like a question, as if he didn’t dare to even offer it.

“Apparently he found it. I lost it and he found it.” John said more to himself.

Greg looked puzzled because he couldn’t quite follow the apparent mental leap. Shaking his head a little, he asked, “Sorry, mate, what?”

“Nothing. Sorry, nothing,” John seemed to come back to reality from somewhere Greg couldn't follow. John smiled weakly up at him, grateful that Lestrade had no idea Sherlock had apparently found the mp3 player and currently held John's heart in his hands. Greg cleared his throat. 

“Right. So… what do you think of dinner? Hm?” he asked in obvious fake enthusiasm, rubbing his hands together.

John stood slowly and said while stretching his back, “Yes, of course. Anything in? Sorry, didn’t check…,” and marched over to the kitchen counter.

“Thought about going out?” Greg sounded insecure. “Only if you’re okay with it of course! Didn’t want to assume… Actually, I think you really could do with a change of scenery to be honest. Clear the head, ease the mind, have some fun and so on…,” he tried to lure John in. "Sound good?"

“Sure. Yeah. Absolutely.” With a side glance through the kitchen window which faced the opposite bank of the Thames, John agreed. “Good plan.” ‘ _If only you knew how right you are’_ , John thought. And with that he grabbed his coat and they headed out the door.

At first they strolled through the streets a bit without speaking much. Only the occasional “Here? What do you think?” “Nah… don’t fancy Greek…” Repeated in a similar way around every other corner, none of them particularly hungry. There was no mentioning about what caused John's gloomy mood or where he'd been the last couple of days or why he even stayed at Greg's at all. They walked without destination and without plan and without knowing each other well enough to know where to go together if it wasn’t to a pub for a pint.

How much easier this was with Sherlock, John thought. They had never even discussed where to go. They just did, falling into step with each other, walking in sync and heading for one restaurant or another in unison.

Thinking of Sherlock - again - John stopped in his tracks.

“Actually, Greg, would you mind if we just quickly stopped by the hospital?” he asked.

Seeing the eyes of his friend widen in worry, he hurried to calm him. “No! No, no, no! Nothing like that. I mean… it’s not…. I just want to collect something, okay? Calm down!”

Greg blew out a breath and nodded.

“Okay. Thank god. I thought with you being gone for two fucking days and not telling me…”

“Yes. No. Everything’s …fine. Yeah, fine.” John nodded frantically, more to convince himself than his friend. “As I said, collect something. Hope Molly’s still in,” John mused, already changing direction to make his way to St. Barts hospital.

“Molly? Molly Hooper?” Greg’s eyes lit up. He hurried to catch up with John.

“Yes, Molly Hooper,” John grinned to himself, infected by the sudden buoyant mood of his friend. “Don’t mind joining me now, do you?” John smirked and was satisfied by the blush creeping up the detective inspector’s cheeks.

“Here you are, John.” Molly handed him a couple of sheets with a reassuring shy little smile on her lips.

“Good. That’s good.” John looked at the sheets in his hands and sighed in relief.

The memory of a limp and nearly lifeless arm stretched out on white sheets, skin cold and damp, a flat and frantic pulse beating underneath pale skin the only sign of life. The pressure on his heart tightening simultaneously to the tourniquet around a bicep. Veins appearing faint and blue in the crook of the arm. He had had to take the right one, the normally smooth tissue being too scarred and taught on the left arm. No fresh puncture wounds though, that's good, good… he had tried to convince himself. Although he hadn't checked the space between the toes afraid of what he would find there. Neither had he dared to inspect the groin area afraid of… of everything really…

He had hesitated and then flinched - Sherlock hadn't, Sherlock hadn't reacted at all - when he had pushed the needle into the flesh to draw blood samples. It couldn't be helped. He needed to know, he had to be sure. The reassuring red flowing into the syringes had helped to ease the tension. A bit. The papers in his hand helped even more. They let him breathe again.

“If you need another,” Molly nodded in the direction of the sheets, “just let me know, okay? I mean, they won’t change, John. Not even with a third check,” Molly looked compassionately at John.

“No. I mean yes, thank you. But I don't think I'll need another. Not now at least,” John winced slightly.

He saw that Molly kept eyeing Greg who waited in the background. She blushed a bit and brushed a non-existing loose hair strand behind her ear.

John looked back and forth between the two of them and realised that Greg, too, was fidgeting in the back of the lab, trying to look as unaffected as remotely possible.

When Molly finally tore her eyes away, she looked a bit uncertain at John, her gaze jittering back to Greg now and then. John wasn’t sure if this was due to her not very well hidden attraction, which John wasn’t sure she was even aware of herself, or rather to the subject she addressed. She licked her lips self-consciously before opening her mouth and immediately shut it again. Finally she brought herself to speak up, which was merely a babble actually, her voice small of hesitation.

“I know it's not my business and…. and I absolutely don't want to tell you what to do, John. Really. I know you only want the best. I know that … I really _really_ do. And … you're the doctor after all… and all… but these tests you asked me to run… did they mean… I just mean… is Sherlock alright? Is he… has he… he hasn't, right? The screening was clean, so that's… good? Isn't it John? But… oh god, some of the lab results… they were horrible, why does he never take care? And why didn’t you bring him to… let him… I mean, is it enough? At home? Will he be...,” Molly fidgeted with her lab coat, blushed and looked at the floor. “God, I'm rambling. I'm sorry, John. Sorry. It's really not my place to… I'm just worried.”

“Molly, it's okay.” John interrupted her. “Molly.” He said a bit firmer when she kept staring at her feet. When she finally looked up he hurried to reassure her: “It's okay. I know you care and that is… good. Yeah, really good actually.” he nodded. “But… you know… what was I supposed to do? I… just… yeah.” He shrugged one shoulder, being out of his depth, too. 

What other option would he have had? None really. A hectic call to the surgery, Sarah bringing his bag, his supplies and some more he hadn't even requested but appreciated nonetheless. A small smile, a "take care", a gentle hand on his forearm and he had rushed up the stairs again. His stomach turning when he had had to puncture the skin again, now already turning to purple and green. However the acidic smell of his friend's breath, the chapped lips, the low blood pressure, the fever… it had all just confirmed his suspicions of dehydration and lack of eating in combination with physical overexertion. It had only spurred him on to continue the procedure.

This time it was Molly's turn to comfort him. She laid one of her small hands tenderly on his forearm and pulled him out of his thoughts.

“John, I understand. Really. I do. But you know… with these first lab results I just wondered… maybe it would have been better…”

“Yes, Molly, I know!” It came out a bit more forceful than intended and John wiped a hand over his face and ran his fingers through his graying hair. “I _am_ a doctor - as are you by the way - and this is exactly why it was even more insane. But you know that I was afraid of the…,” nervously he glanced over at where Greg was still standing near the door. He looked a bit bewildered but obviously tried very hard not to overhear them. 

John cleared his throat. “Just think about it... what if my first fears would have been confirmed, what if he _had_ taken something? And what if I _had_ taken him to hospital and they would have run tests too, wouldn’t they? What would have happened then? He would have been furious. Mycroft wouldn't have thought twice about sending him back to… but who am I kidding… he would have known anyway. And…," here John lowered his voice, nervously keeping an eye on Greg in the corner of his view. "And cases, Molly… he wouldn't have been allowed on cases anymore. And that's his everything, Molly. You know that. I couldn't do that to him. It would have been hell for him, it would have killed him. Well, and… you know… Mycroft knew and he didn't force me to bring him anywhere but … home.”

He had carried Sherlock, who was much lighter and felt much smaller than expected, to Mycroft's still waiting car. The driver hadn't asked. He hadn't wasted time and drove off to Baker Street. He had raised the partition to give them some privacy and John had held Sherlock, whispering in his ear to be strong, to hold on. He told him he'd be there, he'd take care. He promised him that he'd make sure that Sherlock would be alright. He had made a vow… he'd ensure Sherlock would get anything he'd need… everything… nothing less and nothing more.

Molly sensed his hesitation on the last said word and frowned at him. “Is... everything alright now, John?” 

“Yes. Yes he's fine… now. ‘His old snarky self’ or something like that. That's at least what Mrs Hudson told me.”

“Mrs Hudson?” Molly asked puzzled. “I thought you'd been… That's not what I meant.” Her eyebrows furrowed even more. “Oh…”, her eyes widened a fraction. “I just assumed you had been with him… uhm... to…uhm… take care…” Molly tried to clarify and cringed. 

“I am… I was… it's complicated.” John sighed.

Yes. It had been. To be so close but Sherlock being so far away. To be unsure about staying, but reluctant to leave. To be worried and at the same time relieved.

After the first test results had been done the first horror had turned into gratitude which had turned into misery followed by concerns. He had texted Mycroft. Just one word. Clean. 

When Mycroft had answered, "of course he is. He would have had a list otherwise," John hadn't believed his eyes. How could that come from the same man he had seen worrying mere hours ago? 

"Not sure this time," John had responded, but there had been no more messages. And that had been it. He had been left alone to struggle through it. Not totally alone though… there had been Mrs Hudson of course who had done her utmost best to provide him with food and company. And Sarah and Mike to supply more i.v. fluids, special nourishment and supplements to refill all the empty depots in Sherlock's tormented body. And just when the improvement of his friend's state had made his heart lighter, a sadness had weighed it down again. Because now the moment he had to say goodbye again would come soon. He had prepared everything so that he wouldn't be necessary any more for the time when Sherlock wouldn't want him around any longer. And now… now that moment had arrived. Mrs Hudson had confirmed it. He was his former self again. And that former self hadn't wanted John at 221b.

“Sounds like it.” Molly said. 

She took a side glance at Greg who was poking his finger in some undefined tissue on Molly's section table. 

“Greg…” Molly shouted in alarm. Immediately she turned beet red. “Uhm… uh… Detective Inspector. Maybe you should not stick your fingers in my bits…” 

John choked and tried to disguise it as a cough, but Molly turned an even deeper shade of red if that was at all possible. 

“Oh god… fuck. Oh NO, no, I didn't mean…. oh, buggering hell….” Molly turned abruptly, squeaking “Coffee!”, reaching for her empty mug and all but fled from the morgue while waving the cup in their vague direction.

“What… was _that_?” dumbfounded, Greg followed Molly with his eyes. 

“Well… that was Molly explaining to you where you should or shouldn't put your fingers.” John giggled.

Greg's eyes widened. “I should what?”

John laughed heartily, for the first time in a long while, and shook his head. These two idiots, didn't see what was right in front of them.

John had to swallow against the sudden lump forming in his throat, but he forced himself to slap a hand on Greg's shoulder in camaraderie and smirk at him. “If you want my two cents… I think you _definitely_ should!”

With that he steered an even more confused Greg back out on the streets again. In his coat pocket the folded piece of paper Molly had handed him earlier. He tried to hide his mixed feelings behind a mask of indifference while going back to trudging next to Greg without actually feeling like it.

Being too lost in thought to take part in any decision making John just went along and they inevitably ended in the occasional pub. At least they did eat. Steak for Greg and melancholic curry for John. It was quite delicious, but most importantly it was warm and filled their stomachs and they didn’t have to prepare it themselves.

When John had agreed to go out for dinner it was mostly an attempt to get out of the prison that was his own head. He hadn't taken into consideration that there wouldn't be anything to do but talk while they were sitting together over their food.

They tried to fill the awkward silence with drinking each a couple of pints, but eventually Greg thumped his glass on the table and looked over at John across their cleared plates.

“So, spit it out.” His tone left John no choice than to surrender. The light buzz of several beers helped to overcome his earlier hesitation.

“It’s Sherlock.” John said, fiddling with his napkin.

“Of course it’s Sherlock. Everything’s about Sherlock.” Greg huffed.

John raised his gaze and stared at him. “So, you _did_ hear us … in the morgue I mean. Molly and me.” 

“No. Nope, I didn’t!” Greg exclaimed, waving his hands defensively in front of him.

John eyed him, “How did you… I mean, how do you know then?”

“I don't exactly _know_ but I assumed. Not much of a leap, is it? But thanks for confirming. You know… I'm not a complete moron. Sometimes even _I_ can put one and one together… with you staying with me and being gloomy as fuck, he not answering his phone and such...” Greg said running his fingers up and down his glass gathering the drops of condense. 

John only hummed.

“So. What about Sherlock?” Greg kept insisting. “I assume it's not only him being his outrageous self. God knows you put up with _that_ much longer than anyone ever dared to expect. Don't even know how you got through it without strangling him on a regular basis…”

“Oh, I wanted to. You bet!” John huffed. 

“What is it then… can't be that much worse, can it?” 

“Well… I don't know, Greg.” John said, frowning, staring down his glass. “I don't know. It's… nothing actually. Nothing.”

“Doesn't look like nothing to me, mate.” Greg raised his eyebrows at John.

Sighing John brought himself to say: “You know it hasn't been easy. Lately. The last... months. With Sherlock and me… I mean. Hmm… who am I telling, you've been there. Seen it. Haven't you?”

At this point Greg just nodded, silently, giving John room to gather his thoughts. 

“Yes, well…” John cleared his throat. “It's been different between Sherlock and me. After… he came back and all the shit around Mary. A bit… tense if you will. And I can certainly blame myself for a big part there too… but...”

Without moving, Greg just looked at John expectantly to encourage him to continue speaking. 

His glass waited empty in his now stilled hands.

John stood and unexpectedly he snatched the glass from Greg's grip. 

“I'll get us a refill, yeah?” He asked without waiting for an answer. He made his way up to the bar and dumped the empty glasses on the counter. 

“Same?” The bartender asked while drying the counter with a filthy looking tea towel. 

“Yeah. Same.” John answered without even thinking, worrying his lower lip.

“You do look like you'd need something stronger.”

John looked up at the man behind the bar, now aware that he hadn't even wasted one glance on him until now.

“You know… you're right. Give me…,” John let his eyes roam the rows of bottles above the counter but couldn't decide. He didn't even know what Greg liked. Really liked. “Gimme something of the good stuff.” he finally settled on.

“And what exactly is the good stuff?” The bartender growled amused but was already busy picking up two tumblers and filling them with the amber liquid which made John's mouth water. Yes, that was exactly what he needed right now.

“Here you are. A nice 10 years Talisker. Hope that's good enough for you?!” The bartender announced pushing the glasses towards John. He couldn't tell if the man was seriously annoyed or just joking, but was too tired to even care.

Picking one glass in each hand he made his way back to their corner table. He sat the glass in front of Greg who looked surprised up at him.

“It's on me. Hope it'll do.” John said while sliding back in on his chair opposite of Greg's.

First sniffing then taking a little sip Greg nodded in approval. “This will sure as hell do. Thanks for that.”

He sat the tumbler back down and raised his eyes again and with that John knew, he wasn't off the hook.

“Good… well… where was I?” John tried to buy himself some time. Why did he even hesitate this much? Greg was a friend. Someone who listened. But John found he actually didn't really know what to say. How could he speak words that hadn't taken shape in his own mind yet?

“Tense.” was the only word that came from Greg's lips.

“Right. Tense… yeah. You're right.” John muttered and winced slightly while carrying on.

“So… it became… it was… it didn't work anymore. You know how things can get then. Shouting, rows, pouting. You know _him_. You know how Sherlock is when he dislikes people...” John's head saged between his hunched shoulders.

“But… he _does_ like _you._ ” Greg interfered before John could continue.

“Not so sure anymore.” John muttered quietly so that Greg could hardly understand what he was saying. 

“Come again, John? Don't be silly! You know… you of all people… damn John, you know, don't you?” Greg didn't know what he was hearing.

Bracing himself by taking a deep breath John looked into Greg's eyes and said: “He decided… well… _we_ decided to... part ways.”

When Greg only stared blankly at him, he added, “I moved out.”

“Well shit.” Greg said. And when a confirming grunt was the only answer he got he emptied his glass in one go throwing his head backwards.

“I need another.” He stood and held his hand out to receive John's glass as well. 

John quickly followed, knocking back his drink without even tasting it, just for the sake of getting pissed, and handed the empty tumblr to Greg who stomped off towards the bar.

John savored the warm buzz spreading in his stomach. Several beers and this quickly finished whisky already did their job to daze the gnawing thoughts roaming his mind. Nonetheless he welcomed the refilled tumblr Greg placed in front of him not much later.

“Well shit.” Greg said again as if to confirm it. “Who would have thought…,” he took a sip of his whisky.

“Not me.” John huffed while turning to his own drink.

“But I thought… you said…,” Greg looked at him in confusion.

“Yeah, actually, it was a bit more him than me, but I guess… it doesn't matter anyway. It is what it is.” John shrugged.

“Yeah… and what it is, is shit.” Greg grunted firmly, aggressively gulping down the liquid in his glass. 

After that they sat silently for a long while, keeping each other quiet company. They agreed to another drink with a nod. Someone announced to go to the loo with just a pointing thumb. In an attempt to lighten the mood Greg brought some nibbles from the bar. 

They were still untouched when Greg said, already a bit slurring, “At least the two of you still talk to each other,” as if there hadn't been any break in their conversation.

“Hmm?” John had to focus a bit, directing his thoughts back to where they had left the conversation. He frowned. 

“Do we?” John looked puzzled.

“Well… at least… I saw you texting… and that email today… that was him… no? Are you not?” Greg threw John a worried look, seemingly afraid that he had overstepped in any way. 

“Guess we do… yeah… sort of?” John nodded slowly, the world tilting a bit in the corner of his eye when he did so. He hurried to stop it but his head was slow to follow his lead.

“But, you know… that email. It was… it felt an awful lot like…,” he lowered his voice to give it a mock ironic touch “...’we-could-still-be-friends’...,” he tried to chuckle but the sadness in his eyes undermined all his efforts.

Greg's look at John softened a bit as he asked quietly, “Isn't that exactly what you already were… are?”

John huffed a small breath through his nose. Nodding once he said, “Right. Right, yes. Yes, of course you're right, Greg. I'm just being silly.” He raised his glass to blame the liquor.

“No, John.” Greg tried to catch his friend's eye. And when he was finally able to hold them, he added, “It's just… to me… it feels like an awful lot more than just… ‘mates-being-mates-having-a-row-and-move-on’.”

John swallowed but didn't avoid Greg's eyes.

The unspoken words hung heavy between them. Then Greg finished the rest of his drink, stood and shrugged on his jacket. He left John to himself while paying the bill. 

They walked back to Greg's in silence. In mutual agreement they each turned in without offering another word. All was said and done. 

But was it?

**  
  
  
**

Shifting on the sofa under a couple of blankets, sheets and covers to keep the night chills away, John tried to find a comfortable position. As grateful as he was for Greg's hospitality, he had to look for somewhere else to stay soon. Something permanent. And affordable. Probably not in London then.

John could hear the water of the Thames slosh against the walls of his current shelter. He liked it, he started to get used to it and found it very calming - usually. Lying on his back now, hands folded on his slightly revolting stomach, he willed himself very much to fall asleep. But sleep didn't want to take over. 

He kept staring at the low ceiling in the dark and Greg's words were ringing his ears. 

_"to me… it feels like an awful lot more…"_

_'To me too,'_ he had almost said. So much more. What good would it do though to tell Greg? What good would it do to tell anyone when that feeling wouldn't be reciprocated. He would always have to live with the feeling that they'd look at him and know. Pity him. Even worse, they'd see Sherlock and know. Maybe even tell him? 

_'Oh God',_ John groaned. 

Just the thought of Sherlock unsettled him. All sorts of feelings tumbled and got tangled in his body and mind. The dizziness of the booze didn't help to sort them. The antsy prickle of worry just beneath his diaphragm got muddled with the flurry of anticipation. The woozy lightheadedness mingled with the pleasant warm hum of attraction and temptation. There was a buzzing like current flooding his whole body, making his skin tingle, his heartbeat speed up. He wasn't able to keep apart if it was despair or desire, if it was exhaustion or excitement. 

He kicked at his blankets, it was getting much too warm underneath. He got fidgety and shifted restlessly under his sheets. A fine layer of sweat started to cover his chest and lower back and John felt more and more uneasy. Only when he wanted to get rid of the t-shirt he normally slept in he got aware that his left hand had sneaked into his pants and was tightly gripping his cock, already hard and dotting his underwear with wet spots of precome. Suddenly, all sensations narrowed down, concentrated and zoomed in on the cause of his current turmoil. They all fused into one tight knot of lust and longing which burst and seared through his veins and almost overwhelmed him. He gasped. He had no capacity or will stop. His body was screaming for release - God, how long had it been - and his mind opened all floodgates and drowned him in flashes of memories, fantasies, dreams and hopes he had denied himself for far too long. 

He couldn't contain it any longer. His guards lowered by too much alcohol, too much talking about Sherlock, thinking of Sherlock, the yearning and longing for the man took over. Impatiently, he tugged at his pants to free his straining erection. He couldn't stop to stroke his cock, tight, fast, urgent. This wouldn't take long. Too much. Too sudden. Too desperately needed. Wanted. John was unable to hold back the images of Sherlock dancing, his lean body bending and twisting, that long neck being stretched even more and damp dark curls framing his flushed face. All this merging into his mind's pictures of a much more intimate context - Sherlock's skin flushed for totally different reasons, neck stretched for John to run his tongue all the way up along the carotid to Sherlock's jaw, his ear, nibbling and sucking his earlobe, his head thrown back in pleasure, panting, sweating, those flexible long legs folded around John's waist. 

John's other hand slipped past the barely lowered waistband of his boxer briefs to grab his balls, squeeze them, roll them in his palm, pretend they'd brush against Sherlock's plush arse with every deep thrust. His hips bucked up, pushing himself harder, faster into his own fist. The thought of Sherlock's body squeezing around him instead, the man coming undone underneath him, them slotted together by tangled limbs unleashed all the pent up tension and John was coming, a sharp exhale hissed through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut tightly. The force of the orgasm made his abs cramp and left his body shaking. 

He lay there, panting, trying to get his breath back under control. For a blissful moment his mind wiped out, the world turned black. 

Unfortunately, it didn't take long until the chill crept back in and raised goosebumps on his damp skin. With it, a different kind of chill settled underneath his skin and the unease of earlier that night was back with full force. Now, with the balancing counterpart of pleasurable sensations gone, all that was left was the sickness, the anxiety and worries, the exhaustion. 

_'What the hell was that?'_ John thought, still out of breath, looking up to the ceiling with unseeing eyes. _'What was that? What the hell was that?'_

Not that he wasn't familiar with stress relief wanks, hot fantasy wanks, too long without date wanks, boredom wanks, all sort of wanks… everything but! Sherlock probably had a whole spreadsheet about his wanking habits… John grimaced… no, not going there now, not good, bit not good, very much not good… too late. 

To be honest, which John tried very much not to be on this topic, it hadn't even been his first Sherlock themed wank. He had always known that he'd found Sherlock attractive, that in the early days he hadn't been averse to deepen their friendship into something more, that his mind had more than once pondered and wondered about Sherlock's sex life…

Especially in the pre-Mary days he couldn't have helped but take the occasional long shower when Sherlock had been once again floundering through the flat in only a sheet. Most disturbing had been the moments after a particularly complicated case solved by Sherlock's brilliant deductions, when John had had to bear through paperwork, dinner, cab rides home… all with an excited, rumpled, high-spirited and most beautifully content Consulting Detective next to him. It had always cost all his willpower not to all but sprint up the stairs to lock himself up in his bedroom at the first possible opportunity. Back then, he had often been bewildered about this odd response to cases. Of course he'd known that it was somehow Sherlock related as the sparkling eyes, the gesturing hands, the sharp deductions firing lips and… oh God… the poor straining buttons of his much too tight shirts had made a regular appearance among his most stimulating fantasies. He had always labeled it 'stress relief', if he was a bit more honest it was 'okay my flatmate is a handsome and brilliant guy which is of course kinda attractive who would not think so and no girlfriend in sight anyway'. Yeah, and mostly he had just tried to tune it out, push it to the back of his mind.

This however had been something different altogether and left him rattled. Even though he finally acknowledged, finally knew, how deep is affection - his _love_ \- really was… he had never realised how intense his desire had already been all that time and for how long it had been going on already, how much of it had been suppressed and locked up, how good he'd been in fooling himself. Had he also been able to fool Sherlock? John felt his heart thumping in his throat, blood whooshing in his ears. Probably not. Most certainly not! Sherlock Holmes wasn't tricked easily. And Sherlock Holmes thought that he, John, was the worst possible liar imaginable. Perfect. Just perfect. Had Sherlock seen it, deduced it and was bothered by it? 

John's mind wandered to the last time he'd seen Sherlock. Awake. Dancing… _'someone make me feel alive'..._ John had understood, it was okay. No, not okay, but… He had made it clear in his letter, hadn't he? John recalled his letter, the song, mulled the thoughts he had had while writing it, while watching Sherlock sleep, while taking care of him. He had made clear that he'd take a step back if that was what Sherlock wanted. He had offered to support him in every way Sherlock needed him to. Wanted him to. Right? Would Sherlock still be concerned about John's attraction towards him? Was he afraid John would make an unwanted move on him? 

It had never been a topic between them though, neither their respective sex lives - if that was even a thing for Sherlock, which John had seriously doubted until recently - nor any attraction or non-attraction between the two of them.

They had never talked about any of that. They had never talked about _anything at all_ really. 

Now, with at least his breath being back to normal, the fog cleared a bit and the room around him looked more and more familiar. He recognised the pattern of the cracks in the paint on the ceiling, the prints on the wall, the noises around him. He tried to relax into the homely comfort of Greg's boat.

Oh. Damn. Greg. 

John felt himself blush deeply. Not that it was anything noteworthy among blokes - how often had he been witness to other men's secret or not so secret self-pleasuring in the army as well as among the rugby mates. Only, this time he couldn't, by any means, recall what had happened. On the outside, so to speak. What had there been to witness? John prayed to whoever wanted to listen that he hadn't called out names… well, one name. Or that… shit shit shit… they were on a boat, right? Did such a bloody thing move? Like a camper van or something? Freaking hell. John growled. 

But then, Greg knew all about it, about his misery, about Sherlock, about it being… more. Weren't even Greg's bloody words the initial spark that fanned the flames? 

Greg seemed to know John better than he himself. 

_'... something more…'_ the Greg in his mind said over and over.

 _'At least the two of you still talk to each other.'_ Greg had also said. _'Talk?'_ John thought. They didn't talk. They _never_ talked. That was the whole point. But that was something Greg couldn't know. It wasn't as if Greg would sit next to them to babysit their conversations. 

_'... you still talk…'_

_'... still…'_

He vaguely remembered Greg referring to their current kind of conversation, which actually _wasn't_ conversation at all. Greg thought that the email from Sherlock was 'talking’? John himself hadn't seen it in this light, yet. After all, the last time John had actually talked to Sherlock face to face was almost a week ago. 

John was restless. He couldn't stop his thoughts or still his mind or mute Greg's voice. 

After a while he gave in and sat up. Ruffling his hair with his right hand he waited until the room around him slowly stopped swaying. When he wanted to get up, the mess his release had created on the sheets and his never taken off shirt and also his belly, made him cringe. He had totally blocked that out, still feeling uncomfortable about the intensity of his thoughts, feelings, physical response. 

He sighed, stood on wobbly legs and went to the bathroom to clean up. On his way back to the sofa he picked his laptop from the kitchen counter as well as a glass of water against the dryness of his throat. Carelessly, he untangled the sheets, tried to gather the soiled ones and threw them on the floor next to him. When he was fairly sure to have cleared the sofa from evidence of his activities, he settled, laptop on the low couch table right next to him. 

Still buzzed, he was blinded when the screen lit up, but squinting his eyes he reached his goal to focus on the screen, get into his inbox and find Sherlock's mail with a few clicks.

He looked at the screen for what felt like hours, until his eyes began to water. He assumed it was due to the fact that he hadn't blinked the whole time. Still, the merciless screen wouldn't offer him more than the few small lines which were burned onto his retina by now.

> _John,_
> 
> _This is a fight you cannot win._
> 
> _21 guns._
> 
> _Sherlock_

**  
  
  
**

And John knew exactly what this was supposed to mean. He was - had been - a military man after all. 

The one night came to his memory when they had sat in their respective chairs, still shaken to the core, frightened by the amount of angst they’ve felt - not for themselves but for the other - but so reassured at the same time because they knew now - really knew - that they weren’t alone anymore. 

It had been the night after the events of the pool and they'd sat there and come to the conclusion that they needed a tool to communicate with one another which only the two of them would understand. They couldn’t rely on a look and a nod as agreement to die together. And if they had any say in it they’d rather avoid that particular outcome. Better come prepared the next time.

Their discussion had led to them suggesting the wildest code words, throwing them into fits of laughter, releasing and easing the tension of the previous events. When Sherlock finally came up with ‘Vatican Cameos’ they both had found it that hilarius and absurd that they’d agreed on it without hesitation. 

They’d never laughed about it again after that night. It had saved their lives, on multiple occasions. And it had always been their weapon, their advantage, their one step ahead. It had meant that they weren’t alone in this, their reassurance that there was someone having their back. Their secret. It had always meant the two of them against the rest of the world.

21 guns though was exactly the opposite.

21 guns was truce. 

21 guns was surrender.

21 guns was give up the fight.

There was a link at the bottom of the mail which said exactly the same - 21 guns - and until now John had avoided to open it. 

However, if this mail was meant to be ‘talking’ what exactly was it Sherlock wanted to say?

The cursor of John’s mouse hovered over the highlighted rows of letters and signs and numbers before Dutch courage took over and John clicked on it before he had even made a conscious decision of doing so. Still too drunk to care about the time of day or spend one thought on the volume, John leaned his head heavily on his hand palms, digging with the balls of the thumbs into his eye sockets until he saw stars. When he heard the first sounds emerge the little laptop speakers he grunted. Of course, what else. [He settled in and listened.](https://youtu.be/U0XcqF7rqHk)

He knew it was silly, but he couldn’t avoid the feeling that this was solely sung for him. If Sherlock wanted to tell him something, he would listen. And if Sherlock wanted him to listen, he would try to understand. That was the least he could do right now.

**_Do you know what's worth fighting for_**

**_When it's not worth dying for?_**

_‘I think I know, yes. For you… to be safe, to be happy. You deserve that. Even… even if that means you don't need me anymore. And if that means you need to find someone… else… in your life… to love… and be loved in return… I'll fight for it, yeah. It looks like I'm not enough to make you feel alive._

_And that's killing me in a way, yes. In many ways. Has for a long time now…’_

**_Does it take your breath away_**

**_And you feel yourself suffocating?_**

_‘Let me come through, I’m a doctor… he’s my friend, please… jesus, god, no, please…._

_Yes, Sherlock, it does. It does. What’s the point of this? What do you want from me?’_

His drunken brain playing tricks on him. 

_‘Finally… I’ll abandon you… finally… I’ll forget you… I wish I could… finally…’_

Mingling memories. 

_‘Is this a game? How to break John Watson?’_

Blurring sensations.

_‘If so, you won, you know. No need to add fuel to the fire…’_

**_Does the pain weigh out the pride?_**

_‘Not sure there’s any pride left…’_

**_And you look for a place to hide?_**

_‘That’s where I am.’_

**_Did someone break your heart inside?_**

_‘That’s why I’m here.’_

**_You're in ruins_**

_‘I know Sherlock, I know!! Why do you have to rub it in? This is cruel! Even for you!!’_

**  
  
**

****

**_One, twenty one guns_**

**_Lay down your arms_**

**_Give up the fight_**

_‘Is this really what you want? Me giving up? Why? How? I can’t.’_

**_One, twenty one guns_**

**_Throw up your arms into the sky,_**

**_You and I_**

_‘Wait… You and I? You too? Both of us? What is your fight then? Sherlock, please… I’m a bit lost here…_

_What are we even talking about? Wait,_ are _we talking? What are_ you _talking about?’_

**  
  
  
**

**_When you're at the end of the road_**

**_And you lost all sense of control_**

_‘Is this you_ asking _me, Sherlock? Because I don't really have a choice, have I? My roads never end. I’m always the one left behind, doomed to carry on._

_I’m wondering if I’ve ever even had the slightest bit of control in the first place… you always were the one pulling me along or leaving me behind._

_Not holding you back any more now. Slowing you down. Blocking your road. At last… Finally?_

_Or… is this you trying to_ tell _me something… do you want to tell me something, Sherlock? Did you… lose control? You did! I saw! But why?’_

**_And your thoughts have taken their toll_**

**_When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul_**

_‘This sounds all the High-functioning-sociopath… you know that's crap Sherlock, don't you? But that's not even funny anymore… Christ… I’m broken, too, here. Don't you see, Sherlock? Shit… or do you? What about_ your _soul? Is... this… why?’_

**  
  
  
**

**_Your faith walks on broken glass_**

_‘Faith is for idiots. That's what you would say at least. Well, you always told me I'd be one… but... let me tell you… I never stopped believing in you. Never. Not all the weeks and months and years you were gone. I walked over the shards of our life, but I never stopped believing. Never. And I won’t stop now! Not even if you ask me to.’_

**_And the hangover doesn't pass_**

_‘Some don't, no. Some never end. The dreams still haunt me._

_Some though don’t last long enough, if you ask me. Oh god… if I could just be… be numbed, out of order, shutdown… I don’t want to be sober and face life as it is._

_And your hangover? How’s that going? You don’t even have one… right now. Of drugs that is. Of what else, Sherlock?_

_I, for my part, I’m hungover of life, Sherlock. That’s it… I’m tired.’_

**_Nothing's ever built to last_**

_‘No shit, Sherlock! Tell me all about it! Christ… But you know what? I thought we would… last, I mean. The one thing in my goddamn life that would… I thought we’d either die or grow old together… Been wrong apparently. Not the first time. Idiot…’_

**_You're in ruins_**

_‘I am. Are you too…?’_

**  
  
**

****

**_One, twenty one guns_**

_‘Surrender, really?’_

**_Lay down your arms_**

_‘You realise this is the opposite of what you used to ask me…?’_

**_Give up the fight_**

_‘Don’t think I can do that…’_

**_One, twenty one guns_**

_‘Because the last time I did that…’_

**_Throw up your arms into the sky,_**

_‘I got shot…’_

**_You and I_**

_‘And nearly died…’_

**  
  
**

****

**_Did you try to live on your own_**

**_When you burned down the house and home?_**

_‘Not of my own choice, no, but yes… wasn’t very nice though. But … so did you, didn’t you? And you didn't really choose to either, did you?… shit... I left you. I left you, too. Was it my fault, Sherlock? It was my fault, wasn’t it?… Sorry, Sherlock… I'm sorry… And now? There's nothing left here to burn…’_

**_Did you stand too close to the fire?_**

_‘I’ve been right in the middle of it, Sherlock! I’ve been the fucking guy! There’s nowhere closer to the fire than that! But you… you loved to play with the fire! Have you ever really been too close, huh? Burned your hands? Oh… Sherlock… you… you pulled me out, you went right into it. Knowingly. Willingly. For me. You_ did _burn your hands, didn’t you? The same fire … we burned in the same fire...’_

**_Like a liar looking for forgiveness from a stone_**

_‘I was so alone - and I owe you so much - the most human human being - just one more miracle - I heard you - I heard you …_

_God, Sherlock, have you literally heard me? Have you really been there? So close? And I didn't know, didn't see you, couldn't follow you, couldn't be at your side. I failed you… I thought I’d failed you… Did I, Sherlock? What should I have done? What would have made a difference?’_

**_When it's time to live and let die_**

_‘Not on my watch, Sherlock! Don’t you dare…’_

**_And you can't get another try_**

_‘But I want a second chance, Sherlock. Another try. I want it… why don’t you? Do you?’_

**_Something inside this heart has died_**

_‘Did it? It did! When? Why? How could we let that happen?’_

**_You're in ruins_**

_‘Are you, Sherlock?’_

****

**_One, twenty one guns_**

_‘Is that really what you're asking if me?’_

**_Lay down your arms_**

_‘I've always been the one with the gun. You've been the brain, I've been the weapon… that had been my job… me.’_

**_Give up the fight_**

_‘The game is never over, Sherlock! Don't give this up, don't stop fighting, don't stop trying. Don't shut me out…’_

**_One, twenty one guns_**

_‘Because the last time you did that…’_

**_Throw up your arms into the sky_**

_‘You fell and we both nearly died…’_

**_One, twenty one guns_**

_‘No! This is not who I am… what I do…’_

**_Lay down your arms_**

_‘I vowed this to myself. I vowed this to you. Even if you don’t remember. I don't break a vow, never would. Nor would you, I know that, I'm certain.’_

**_Give up the fight_**

_‘You can't ask this of me.’_

**_One, twenty one guns_**

_‘To give up has never worked for us… why would it now? You're the man of reason. You're the one of probabilities and the obvious… think again!’_

**_Throw up your arms into the sky_**

_‘For once, Sherlock, for once you're the one who sees but doesn't observe… this can't work. This will ruin us. This will be the last strike. For both of us…’_

**_You and I_**

_‘See? You. And I. That's a We! We, Sherlock!_

_You and I.’_

**  
  
**

The music faded, the room surrounding him felt quiet and John's mouth closed with a last fading syllable on his lips. He realised in horror that he had been muttering the entire time while listening. Apparently he had said things out loud. How much of it? Which parts of it? All of it? No, can't be.

He felt silly, it must have been the alcohol. He had talked to _a song_. Ridiculous. He was losing his mind.

 _‘No’,_ John's inner voice, slowed down as the rest of him, finally objected. ‘ _Actually, I've been talking to Sherlock.’_

He had talked to Sherlock? With Sherlock? Talked with Sherlock without the man being present? This sounded vaguely familiar. _'This couldn't work, right?'_ , he tried to interrogate his apparently a bit more capable inner voice. _'Never really worked for Sherlock either. Never knew what he wanted from me…'_ , his consciousness caught up. Yeah, right. Sherlock had always talked to him even though John wasn't there. Sherlock had assumed John would know. John had been annoyed. _'No, didn't work. Doesn't work. Need to tell him. Ask him. Talk to him.'_

He had to talk to Sherlock!

He had to actually, truly and really talk to Sherlock - in real life!

He picked up his phone and unlocked the screen. His fingers found the speed dial without thinking and when he pressed the button ‘1’ he wondered how long it had been since he had last used it. It must have been ages. 

He heard the familiar beeps and got nearly lulled into sleep while waiting. His eyelids grew heavy and his eyes sacked close, when he heard the click of the line connecting.

In a flash he was wide awake again.

Sherlock. This was Sherlock. Real life Sherlock!

And he knew immediately - this had been a terrible idea.

****

**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/U0XcqF7rqHk)
> 
> * * *
> 
> "21 guns" really is a thing in the military.  
> Today better known as the 21 gun salute it originally had been a sign of surrender/truce, when a war ship wanted to enter a foreign or enemy port. As a sign of truce they'd fire their guns to show that the guns were not loaded, thus they'd enter the port disarmed and without hostile intentions. As a sign of acceptance the opposite party on shore would clear their arms as well, so that the entering crew would know they were safe to approach the port.  
> This was later adapted as a ceremony to honour victims of war and also as reverence to state leaders, e.g. the Queen or the president.
> 
> [source 1](https://history.army.mil/html/faq/salute.html)
> 
> [source 2](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/21-gun_salute)
> 
> [source 3](https://www.military.ie/en/public-information/defence-forces-ceremonial/the-21-gun-salute/)


	9. How To Save A Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't know what to think. What to make of it. John didn't make sense. Was it the alcohol talking? Perhaps the whole call was only encouraged by the drinks...  
> Most of all, did it make sense to be slightly happy about this call anyway and cling to a small "for now" as to a lifeline. No, it didn't make sense. Not at all. But here he was. In a life that didn't make sense anymore. And wasn't that the most terrifying thing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear everyone,  
> I'm so grateful you're here, reading and following!!! Just that: Thank you!! 
> 
> Me 💜  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

"John?"

Silence on the other end of the line. Confused and a bit insecure, Sherlock lifted the phone from his ear and checked the screen. Yes, the caller really was John.

He had hesitated a moment before picking up. He wasn't sure if talking was the best thing to do right now. He didn't know what to say anyway. Nothing. And too much at the same time. It was infuriating!

Then again, it was 3am. He had been awake after all. Not able to sleep. Never went to bed in the first place. He sat fully clothed in his chair in the sitting room engulfed in the nightly dark. The fire in the hearth long gone cold. 

John never called. At least not in the last few months. So it had to be urgent? He had no choice, he had to answer the phone.

"John, you there?" He tried again.

Finally a heavy sigh, a clearing of the throat.

"Sh'lock… uhm… hi." John slurred.

"John. You're drunk."

"No! Yes. Maybe. I… I don' know. Am I?" John giggled a bit.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but there was no real anger in it. He heard some rustling through the speaker and wondered once again where John might be right now. He imagined John calling from the upstairs room and smirked at John being his ridiculous self when it hit him that that would never happen. Never again. 

"Did you call by accident, John? You don't have to hold the line if it makes you…"

"No!" he got interrupted. "No… I… I'm not _that_ drunk, you know? I talked to you." 

John said it as a matter of fact, Sherlock didn't know how to respond. So he kept quiet and wondered if that was what John actually wanted to say. 

"No, shit… not what I wanted… I don't talk to you…," more giggles, "... well, I _did_ , but not really and so… yeah, wanted to talk to you. _Wanted_ to… Yeah, that's it." 

"About what?" Sherlock asked. It sounded much ruder than he had intended. But what was this call about? He was out of his depth.He had never liked a drunk John. Surely not now. Not over the phone, not with his heart aching and his stomach turning by the slightest possibility to have even a tiny bit of this man. Even if it were just his drunken voice. God, he was so pathetic. He was annoyed with himself. He had to work on that.

"About… things, you know?" John suddenly sounded small and insecure.

"No, actually I don't. What _things_ , John?" Sherlock desperately tried to keep his voice clear of emotions. Of course there were _things_ he wanted to talk about. Then again, were they the same 'things' John meant? He didn't want to assume and he didn't want to show his cards. Showing one's cards was a sure way to lose the game. 

"God, Sherlock… don't be so… so… you!" John's voice squeaked a bit at the end of the sentence. It could have been adorable.

"I am aware that 'being me' is one of the reasons you distanced yourself from me. No need to call in the middle of the night to tell me."

"I? I distanced myself? You can't be… Sherlock, seriously??" He heard more rustling and footsteps on a wooden floor. John was pacing. "You can't honestly… fuck, this is not how I wanted this to go." The pacing stopped. Then with apparently new found certainty, "Sherlock, we need to talk."

After that, silence. Nothing else. Sherlock found himself forced to say something. It was his turn. 

"I… I'm not sure… if that'd be wise, John. What would we have to say to each other anyway? Bouncing pleasantries back and forth? Blaming each other for occurrences in a far gone past one can't change anymore anyway? Don't you think it'd be better to spare us both from that? I'm tired of it."

He waited. More silence. Had John hung up? He wouldn't blame him. Against all odds, he hoped he hadn't. 

After a while during which Sherlock barely dared to breath, John's voice came tired and muffled through the phone. He could hear scratching close to the speaker. John was running his hand over his face? Through his hair? Sherlock could see it before his eyes as if John was standing right next to him. 

"I should have known…," John whispered exasperated, "... how to save a life after all."

Sherlock was puzzled. What? What was John on about? Where did this leap suddenly come from?

"But John… you do. You're a doctor and you proved time and again…"

"No. Sherlock… do you… do you by any chance know… how to save a life? No? No… you probably don't."

It stung. Even if he was aware that John knew better - of course he did, he was a goddamn doctor - this flat out dismissal stung. True, he had, apart from anatomy, sparse medical knowledge. He had done his research, he had done his best. Most of the time the people he was interested in, work related that is, weren't in need of life-saving anyway… not anymore at least… and the lives he saved through The Work were those of people he had never met and will never meet and therefore weren't interesting. 

Although there was this one life he had tried to save over and over again. One life he cared for beyond all others. And he had failed. Put it at risk over and over again. Had made this life miserable, had made this life unbearable, had made this life a hunt. Maybe John was right, he didn't know how to save a life. He already felt himself getting weak again, he was close to failing… again. John wouldn't be aware of that, of course. That was not what John was referring to. Why would he. 

Nevertheless, John was right. He was always right. Sherlock knew nothing. But he had tried. Nobody can say he hadn't tried...

"That had always been more your responsibility, although I can assure you…"

"No…," he got interrupted once again. 

It was getting on his nerves. Why would John ask him a question and then not wait for the answer. What was the purpose of it? Was there a purpose for this call at all? He shouldn't have picked up after all.

"No, Sherlock. Not what I meant. Not… doesn't matter." John sounded more sober by now but no less tired. Wrung out was what his voice sounded like, thought Sherlock.

"Well, apparently it _does_ matter, otherwise you wouldn't have called. Is this some kind of interrogation for… I can't imagine what actually?"

"Sherlock, just… just let it be. It's not important. It's… nothing."

"John, it can't be nothing, so please…"

"Leave it, Sherlock. Just… leave it, okay?!" John paused and Sherlock waited a moment if he would continue. Just the moment he took a breath to answer, John started speaking again. Silent. Flat. Like ironed cotton, Sherlock thought. Like bland beige ironed cotton. Like one of John's tedious jumpers which didn't suit him.

"I should have known. I… I shouldn't have called."

Sherlock wasn't sure. They hadn't got anywhere with this call. It even was rather depressing. And still… still… John had called. Him. On purpose. On whatever purpose that was. Sherlock had heard his voice… spoken to him. And that was something. Better than nothing… maybe? Perhaps it meant that 21 guns was possible after all… given some time...

"I don't know, John." was what he said therefore. 

"Right. Yeah…," John cleared his throat. Of course John had to misunderstand him. Sherlock had wanted to say… well, what had he wanted to say? He didn't know. He just didn't want to end the call. However, this was exactly what happened. Sherlock grimaced and could have kicked himself.

"Well then." John said coolly. "Goodbye… for now. I guess…" 

And after a short lingering, during which Sherlock's voice failed him, the line went dead. Sherlock stayed frozen for a moment before he lowered his phone and looked at it as if to confirm that the call had ended. 

He didn't know what to think. What to make of it. John didn't make sense. Was it the alcohol talking? Perhaps the whole call was only encouraged by the drinks... 

Most of all, did it make sense in to be slightly happy about this call anyway and cling to a small "for now" as to a lifeline. No, it didn't make sense. Not at all. But here he was. In a life that didn't make sense anymore. And wasn't that the most terrifying thing?

He couldn't sleep. He stayed up, like a statue in his chair, motionless and frozen, freezing down to the core. 

He tried to understand. He had to understand. Because how could he act and react, if he didn't understand. 

Why didn't John make any sense? Well, he often didn't, but not when it was about his special skills. He always made sense as a soldier, as a doctor, as a conductor of light, as a… friend. 

So, why was he doubting his ability to save lives? Why was he asking Sherlock? Didn't make sense! None whatsoever. A little bit of alcohol wouldn't erase such knowledge, would it? And it wasn't as if John had a mind palace where he would delete things. Would he have deleted how to save lives this fast after abandoning his work with Sherlock? No, he wouldn't. He was still working at the surgery… Sherlock supposed. Although, he didn't know much about John lately. Maybe he had abandoned that part of his life also. 

Only, the John Watson he knew wouldn't just stop doing something he was passionate about. He would never give up being a doctor. Unless… for severe reasons. There wasn't much Sherlock could imagine to be severe enough to stop John Watson, the most stubborn person on this planet, doing something he _wanted_ to do. Even being in the middle of a warzone hadn't stood in the way of John Watson being a doctor. There was only one thing that had stopped him so far and that had been his injury from being shot. This was really the only cause Sherlock could think of which could interrupt or end John's career as a doctor - injury, illness, death. Evidently, John wasn't dead - Sherlock shivered at the mere hint of that thought - and last time he had seen him, walking out of Baker Street without even bothering to climb the stairs even though Sherlock was finally awake after a pretty nasty breakdown, John hadn't seemed to be injured either. If he hadn't been harmed within the last 24 hours, which didn't seem to be the case given the recent phone call, there was left the option of illness which Sherlock could rule out considering… Sherlock's thoughts came to a screeching halt. Could he rule that out? Why? How? Not _all_ the serious medical conditions were visible or obvious. What if...

Sherlock suddenly snapped back to life and sat up straight in his chair. What if that was it? What if John was ill? What if John had a non-visible disease. It had to be something influencing his thought processes though, his memories in particular. Sherlock frowned. Was John suffering from some form of amnesia that made him forget his most basic knowledge? That would indeed explain a lot lately. His odd behaviour, his sentimentality, the box full of memories, leaving his most precious belongings behind, forgotten… not knowing what he wanted to say on the phone… Sherlock swallowed hard. That had to be it. How had Sherlock managed to be so blind? How had he not seen this earlier?

He literally jumped up from his chair to grab his laptop. He had to do research. That's the way he always started a case. With facts. 

He gathered information about different kinds of amnesia and discovered that there was a great probability for PTSD patients and patients with depression to develop amnesia at some point. John had both. So he was twice as much at risk to suffer from memory loss, right? To top it all off, most common in cases of PTSD was selective amnesia, which excluded specific events or knowledge from the memory if they were connected to traumatic experiences.

This supported his theory even further. Wasn't it exactly 'saving lives' that was connected to John's most traumatic experience? Afghanistan, being shot while trying to do just that - saving lives! Maybe something had triggered those memories? Sherlock tried to recall the most recent cases they'd solved together. Had there been any similarities to John's past? Hints of a problem? There hadn't been that many cases in the first place and all of them were absolutely unspectacular. That was the whole point of the cases he took John to, wasn't it? More so, none of them had even been remotely military-themed. Pity though. 

Sherlock called himself back to attention. No use to dwell on thoughts of John in fatigues. He had more urgent problems to solve. 

So that was settled… John suffered from selective amnesia concerning his skills as a doctor - at least that much was confirmed. What other memories and knowledge had been lost must be further investigated at a later point. Considering his behavior lately there was a high probability of severe gaps in his memory, possibly even longer spans of time missing. Than could contain a range from several days to maybe even weeks or months. Or years? 

As much as Sherlock scolded himself for it, he felt a wave of satisfaction that John hadn't deleted him. He had even called him. So John remembered him. Trusted him in some way. That had to mean something, right? 

That brought him to his next problem… how did one interact with these patients to not frighten them and make them withdraw? Because that'd be the last thing he'd want - ruin the fragile connection that seemed to exist between him and John in this delicate situation. He had to help John, that much he owed him after… after… everything actually. 

After roaming the internet and reading everything about treatment options, he learned that a major point in comforting amnesia patients is a strong bond to their closest relatives and acquaintances **.** Taking into consideration that John had barely any family left apart from Harry, with whom he had no real bond at all, also no spouse, as that had turned out to be not quite as successful a project as expected, there were only acquaintances left to help. Sherlock tried to think of everyone John had any emotional connection to and decided to ask Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mike, Molly and Sarah for help the next morning. For now though, Sherlock had to be enough. So, next step after knowing ' _who',_ he had to know ' _how'._ What was the appropriate way to approach a person with amnesia? 

Apparently it was quite easy. Support them in their interests, answer their questions, try to help them recover their identity. Give them support if they ask for it and let them be independent in times they want to be. 

Realisation dawned on Sherlock. Was _that_ the reason why John was gone? Did he want to be independent? Of course, Sherlock had decided to arrange exactly that for John at the exact same moment, but maybe that had been coincidence? Would the universe be that lazy? Who cares about the universe anyway? It didn't really matter at this point. The only thing that mattered was helping John. 

Focus. Facts? 

John, selective or dissociative amnesia, confirmed loss of memory: doctor skills, acquaintances primary source of social integrity, Sherlock being the one contacted, support interests, answer questions, foster his self reliance. 

Consequences? 

Ask Hudders, Lestrade, Stamford, Hooper and Sawyer for assistance. For now: Sherlock was the one to react, not on the phone, John didn't like it, still a question to answer: how to save lives, when: as soon as possible! 

So Sherlock did the first best thing he could think of. Deliver facts. 

**send 04:14am  
** [ **https://www.acls.net/bls-als-algorithm.htm** ](https://www.acls.net/bls-als-algorithm.htm)

Basic facts about life support wouldn't be too challenging for the beginning. He could still provide more advanced knowledge later on in the process. 

Oh yes, the reassurance. He'd also need to reassure John.

**send 04:16am  
** **PTSD was first described in 1915 in a study on soldiers returning from war. 15-30% of all PTSD patients suffer from dissociation which can be correlated to selective amnesia. Same can occur to patients with depression. Treatment can happen in various ways, curing rates differ, in most cases it resolves itself. Considering you've done well for a long time after the traumatic event and didn't happen to have any head injury the prognosis is good. SH**

That should be pretty reassuring. Facts are always good. At least for Sherlock. But then, John wasn't Sherlock. John was much more sentimental. Probably he needed social and emotional reassurance as well.

**send 04:19am  
** **You could have told me. SH**

He really could have. But was it likely that he would have? Maybe he'd also need something to calm down? John was rather quick-tempered after all.

**send 04:24am  
** **Don't panic. SH**

Satisfied with himself and not expecting any reaction for the next couple of hours, Sherlock dropped his phone on the little table next to his chair. He was just about to settle in to sort all this new information when his phone pinged to announce a text message.

**received 04:26am  
** **I’m not. Why are you? What is this about?**

Okay, so John was still in denial. Maybe he had even forgotten that he had called? Sherlock had to be careful.

**send 04:27am  
** **Why are you awake? SH**

That was an innocent question, wasn't it? If John would remember their conversation on the phone he'd probably mention it.

**received 04:28am  
** **Couldn’t sleep.**

Well, that didn't help any further though. There was no background information as to why John couldn't sleep. In his current state, did he even know why?

**send 04:29am  
** **But it’s night. SH**

Sherlock really hated to state the obvious, but he'd gladly make an exception in this case. 

**received 04:30am  
** **Excellent deduction, genius ;-)**

John was being silly. Sherlock wasn't the one losing his abilities to deduce. It really wasn't a nice move of John to mock him. Sherlock was a bit annoyed. He only wanted to help here. Apparently, John didn't take this seriously enough.

**send 04:34am  
** **Winky face, John? Why didn’t you forget about those silly punctuation faces first? SH**

There was a pause after the last text. Sherlock checked if he had written anything inappropriate, but couldn’t detect any faux pas. It was the truth. Were there any knowledge in the world less worthy of retaining than the mysteries of the universe, it would be that of the language of punctuation faces.

**received 04:39am  
** **Why exactly should I forget about them, Sherlock? What is this? Is this about a case? Explain?**

What case could possibly include punctuation faces? Mysteriously murdered by wicked winky-face? Yep, that sounded exactly like one of John's ridiculous blog titles. Of course John would think it would be about a case. And actually it was about a case. John's case.

'Explain', John had said. Even though Sherlock already did. The situation was even more serious than Sherlock had expected. He swallowed.

**send 04:41am  
** **A** **s I mentioned before, John, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Amnesia happens a lot to former soldiers who suffer from PTSD plus you’re also a doctor. SH**

He _had_ to get it now. Sherlock couldn't possibly be any clearer.

**received 04:43am  
** **Fucking hell Sherlock, I don’t have amnesia. Why would I?**

More confirmation. This was really worrying by now. John was giving him more troubles than necessary.

**send 04:44am  
** **No need to swear. I’m only fulfilling my duty as a close acquaintance and as your apparently, momentarily first person to contact.  
** **As to the reason why, I explained the cause of trauma induced amnesia in one of the former texts, too. Keep up, John. SH**

Support their needs and blablabla surely didn't mean to mollycoddle the victims of amnesia? John could at least do his best to be _a bit_ reasonable. Otherwise they wouldn't get anywhere. Even John had to realise that.

**received 04:47am  
** **I swear to God - and no, that’s not you Sherlock - I’m not suffering from amnesia!! Why do you think so? You’re not making any sense!!!!**

Ha! John was one to talk after that irritating phone call earlier. As if he knew anything about all the research Sherlock had done just for him, especially for his well-being.

**send 04:49am  
** **No, it’s YOU who’s not making sense. That’s the whole point. How would you know that you don’t have amnesia if you would have forgotten that you have it in the first place? SH**

This was pure logic. But then, logic never had been John's forte. Maybe Sherlock couldn't expect that much of him in his current situation.

**received 04:54am  
** **Because I fucking KNOW, Sherlock! I KNOW!!! Why would I have amnesia?**

Well then, there was nothing to it. He had tried to be gentle. He really had. If John didn't respond to a careful approach, maybe he had to change tactics.

**send 05:02am  
** **I would have liked to avoid this, but you insisted. SH**

 **  
send 05:03am  
** **John. Do you remember Afghanistan? SH**

The trauma was most likely related to that part of John's past. There was a high probability that he would have at least partly deleted those circumstances.

**received 05:06am  
** **Of course I fucking remember bloody Afghanistan!!! What kind of a silly question is that?**

Okay, granted, Sherlock had to admit, the question hadn't been very precise. He would remember, but not all of it.

**send 05:07am  
** **Tell me everything about Afghanistan exactly as you remember it. SH**

Better. Now he would reveal all blank spots.

**received 05:13am  
** **What are you plotting? What are you aiming for? Is this a trick, Sherlock? Just tell me, okay?**

Oh, yes, that was another thing mentioned on the websites he had consulted. Amnesia patients get sceptical and suspicious. They have difficulty trusting people. That in addition to the trust issues John already had. Sherlock had to be careful! Silly of him to expect that John still trusted him unconditionally. Of course he wouldn't.

**send 05:14am  
** **No trick. Just answer. SH**

He waited impatiently. He had to admit that, although of course he was concerned about John, a part of him was also curious. It was a case after all. 

**received 05:23am  
** **I remember bloody every fucking shit. The sun, the sand, the smell, the heat, … Everything! Every fucking single life I lost. Every time I thought my own end was near. Every ambush, every night not slept, every bullet fired… Happy?**

Why would he be happy? There was nothing to be happy about. Neither John's memories in general were any happy nor them still being present subverted his theory. He couldn't be wrong though. These were the remaining facts… it must be the truth.

**send 05:31am  
** **Then why would you delete your medical skills? SH**

He had to know. If not Afghanistan, what then? Was it totally unrelated to the PTSD maybe? That would open up a totally new range of possibilities.

**received 05:33am  
** **I didn’t. Why would you think that?**

Sherlock began to get fidgety. This was confusing him. This conversation was pointless. They didn't get anywhere like this. Did John really not know?

**send 05:36am  
** **But… You asked me how to save lives, John. If you didn’t delete it, why would you ask? You must have deleted it! SH**

He must have. Otherwise nothing of it made sense.

**received 05:39am  
** **Last time! I didn’t delete it!!!! I know my profession very well.  
  
**

 **received 05:40am  
** **And how do you mean… I asked you?**

Exactly what he meant. He _knew_ he would be right. Thank you, John.

**send 05:42am  
** **See? You already deleted it! Earlier tonight. You asked me! You wanted to know if I’d know how to save lives. To answer that question and to support your interests I sent you the link in one of the earlier messages. You should be able to find it. Otherwise let me know. SH**

No immediate response. That was okay. Maybe John had to let this sink in for a moment. Maybe he just now realised how it all made sense. Probably he'd come around now and thank Sherlock for his help in just a few moments.

**received 05:48am  
** **Sherlock. Please tell me this is not about the phone call!**

Of course it was. About what else? John was starting to frighten Sherlock… 

**send 05:49am  
** **How could I tell you that it's not, when it is? SH**

Show him how pointless his question was. Maybe that would finally do the trick.

**received 05:55am  
** **Oh Sherlock… that… that wasn’t about my medical skills or whatever! I’m fine, okay? No amnesia! All skills perfectly in place! It’s all fine!**

It was not? What was it about then? Lives were mainly saved by doctors, right? Who else would save lives?

**received 05:56am  
** **Calm down!  
  
**

 **received 05:57am  
** **I’m going to bed now. Getting some sleep. Try that too! It would do you good.**

Now? He was going to bed now? But they weren't done! Nowhere near! John, come on, you can't mean that!

**send 06:00am  
** **It’s morning now. You’re ridiculous, John! I can already see the dawn through the window. Why would you sleep** **** ** _now?_ Why not earlier, when all the other people slept? SH**

John was always complaining about Sherlock's sleep schedules and now he was doing exactly the same. Why now suddenly in such an immensely important moment. How very inconvenient. Sherlock had to understand! He had to know! He hated not knowing!

**received 06:01am  
** **Well, because I’m not people. Neither are you. You’re awake, too. You're the one who’s texting me nonsense and keeping me from sleep.**

Ridiculous. John was being ridiculous.

**received 06:02am  
** **Goodnight Sherlock.**

Sherlock hesitated, unsure what to write to convince John that they needed to discuss this. After a while he realised that he didn't know what else to say. And there was no further text from John either. Seemingly, this was it. Conversation closed. 

He felt a pang of regret. 

Sherlock slowly lowered his phone, lost. If not amnesia what else could it be. What did John mean? What was Sherlock missing?

He didn't realise how the day went by. Mrs Hudson walking in and out of the sitting room just side-eyed him worriedly. She had long stopped talking after the first few attempts to engage Sherlock into a conversation without getting any reaction from the man whatsoever. 

He was deep in thought. He was missing something. Something elementary. He recalled and went through the whole conversation again. The phone call as well as the text messages. Where did he go wrong? It must have to do with John's question about saving lives, because it was odd. Even odder than the rest. It stuck out and Sherlock picked up on it immediately. One could call it an intuition. And intuitions are not to be ignored. They represent data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend. There had to be _something._

If it didn't have to do with amnesia, if it didn't have to do with Afghanistan, if it didn't have to do with John's medical skills… what could saving lives be about? Saving lives… saving lives… I should have known how to save a life… do you by any chance know how to save a life… what do you mean, I asked you… didn't ask how to save lives… 

...not what I meant…

Oh.

OH!

Not saving lives… save _a_ _life…_ singular. One. One life. 

But… that's… even more ridiculous. Why just one? Whose life? He had to save someone! Anyone?

Sherlock couldn't ask John though. John had persistently denied to tell Sherlock. First ask him and then dismiss it. Very much like the letter. Addressed at him but not meant for him. What had John to hide? How would Sherlock ever get to know? For a short moment he took into consideration if John had lost someone at the surgery, if he had tried to save a life and had failed. But that didn’t seem very John-like. He had always known the boundaries of his profession and as he had assured Sherlock there was nothing wrong with his skills as a doctor. So, it couldn’t be. There was something else though... John had been drinking. Probably that had been the only reason why he had called Sherlock anyway. Why would he have called otherwise, when he, on the other hand, was hiding from Sherlock wherever he was now. This must have had a reason John wouldn’t act on in a sober state. This was _important,_ damnit! 

Sherlock punched the armrest of his chair in frustration but by accident he hit the metal frame. He swore and held and rubbed his hand.

There was nothing to it, he had to start his investigation all over again. He picked up his laptop again and flipped the lid open. He wasn't exactly sure how the internet could help him find whomever John Watson needed to save, but what else was he supposed to do? Where to start? 

Out of his depth for once, Sherlock opened his browser again and typed into the google search bar, feeling very silly about doing so: ‘whose life to save?’ 

He scrolled through the search results and not long into it he stopped dead. Oh, what a fitting choice of words, he thought. He opened the link[ http://www.bioethics.net/2014/06/killing-a-patient-to-save-whose-life/](http://www.bioethics.net/2014/06/killing-a-patient-to-save-whose-life/) and read about a technique that will be used on patients who present in cardiac arrest from a penetrating injury, for example a gunshot or stab wound. 

He stared at it. This sounded frighteningly familiar. Almost too much to be a coincidence. But this can’t be what John had meant. Why would he go back there? There was nothing to talk about after all this time. And more importantly, it had never been John’s responsibility to save his life in the first place. Neither during the operation, nor afterwards, nor before it had even happened. He did save him though. John was the only reason Sherlock was still alive! Not medical skills of the doctors, not a surgery-shot of the woman known as Mary. Only John had been motivation enough to fight back to life. But that was something the man himself didn’t know and never needed to know. Not ever. This article had to be a coincidence… He decided not to dwell on it and quickly went back to his search and kept on scrolling. 

However, not long after, he shook his head. This was starting to get really bizarre. Just the moment John had convinced him that there was no amnesia whatsoever, he had to stumble over this article? What was the ridiculously overrated universe up to. Rarely that lazy? Today it seemed to be comatose then… 

He couldn’t resist reading the article though, so he clicked on [https://www.bbcearth.com/blog/?article=the-man-whose-life-was-saved-by-honey-bees ](https://www.bbcearth.com/blog/?article=the-man-whose-life-was-saved-by-honey-bees) and read about a man called Eric Grandon, who was showing signs of Gulf War syndrome and post-traumatic stress disorder after six tours to the Middle East. He battled anxiety, depression and suicidal thoughts by keeping bees and claimed that they had saved his life. Apiculture against suicide? There was a thought, Sherlock mused, eyeing his bookshelves where more than one guide about beekeeping was stored. Maybe, all this time, he had had an inkling about the merits of it. Apart from the honey that is… 

But then… Why would John guide him to this? Sherlock’s mind began to swim. Was John suicidal? Was this a cry for help? After some contemplation, he dismissed this thought quite quickly. This wasn’t a John Watson way of calling for help. He had always mocked Sherlock about his interest in bees. They’d hold much too little adrenaline and excitement for a John Watson in need of rescue. If John Watson needed to be saved he would call for danger, he would call for war. He’d need to rescue someone or he’d need to shoot someone… 

Maybe that was it… John needed to save someone to save himself? Would he call Sherlock for advice for that? Or was he looking for a case where he could satisfy this need? Who would be a reasonable person for John to save though? He was really at a loss as to how he would get to know that without asking John. Maybe he could ask… Mike? Or… would Mrs Hudson know? Although, that had to wait till morning. He could hardly storm into Mrs Hudson’s bedroom. That much even Sherlock did know…

At a loss, Sherlock just typed out his thoughts, ‘whose life would John Watson want to save?’, and swallowed when he saw the first search result in the row. 

[ http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/07november ](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/07november)

He knew exactly what this link contained. It was the entry called 'The Empty Hearse'. He didn’t need to open it. He had read it countless times after he had to watch his John walk away side by side with a petite blond woman. Someone who had taken his place, Sherlock’s place. After he had almost lost John in a bonfire, after he had tried to win John back, stopped the bomb, made John laugh, made him say that he forgave Sherlock. After John had gone back to a life outside of Baker Street anyway. After realising that Sherlock had been powerless to change a single thing about the situation. Even though he knew this article by heart and wasn't keen on revisiting this place of the past, his fingers betrayed him and clicked on the link nonetheless. He found himself staring. His eyes immediately locked on the one thing he had never understood, he wasn't able to place. He still couldn’t fit it into the picture… #sherlocklives means #johnwatsonlives. 

Why? Why would John write such a thing? On his blog! Openly for everyone to see! And again in this letter he wasn't supposed to read. _'It's still true'_ , John had written. What was that supposed to mean? Because John _had_ lived! The whole time Sherlock had been dead. He had even moved on to live a life without Sherlock in it. Had Sherlock not come back, what would have happened? Maybe John would even have forgotten Sherlock… 

It didn’t matter. Not anymore. Sherlock was back and nothing had changed the way he had planned. And now there was this. A cryptic question which meant nothing according to John and was important nonetheless… 

Maybe he should acknowledge that he didn’t know John Watson any more. John Watson had stopped being the man Sherlock thought to know the moment Sherlock had been handed over a piss yellow file Mycroft had kept on John. A moustache. John had looked about 150 years old. Maybe he should stop assuming things about John, basing his facts on a John he once had known. 

Abandoning all his own deductions, he slowly typed the exact wording of what John had said: 'how to save a life'

He blinked in confusion at the search results… there were hundreds of matches but all for the same thing. A song. 

A song? A song! Could be… maybe… 

It would form a pattern. Sherlock had sent him a song after John had sent him a song after all… well, John didn’t _mean_ for Sherlock to hear it though. But it _had_ been directed at him. That was the only reason why Sherlock had even bothered to add a link to the email. It was the song he had had in mind immediately after listening to John’s music on the USB device. So... it's… sending messages by songs between them now? Was that code for something?

Sherlock scrolled down to the inevitable lyrics. At first he didn’t even bother to listen to it, because the moment he read the first line he knew this was it. This was what he had been searching for, what John had meant… ‘do you by any chance know how to save a life’... not how to save lives then, but ‘How To Save a Live’... [the song](https://youtu.be/lXcX5llJeko)… and no, Sherlock didn’t know. 

He took a breath, settled in his chair and read.

**_Step one, you say we need to talk_ **

**_He walks, you say sit down, it's just a talk_ **

**_He smiles politely back at you_ **

**_You stare politely right on through_ **

**_Some sort of window to your right_ **

**_As he goes left, and you stay right_ **

**_Between the lines of fear and blame_ **

**_You begin to wonder why you came_ **

Now everything fell into place. That's why John mentioned it. The need to talk. Sherlock's reluctance. 

_'Don't you see, John? Don't you understand? That is exactly the reason why I don't want to talk. Wouldn't that be the most awful thing that could happen? Sit next to each other with nothing to say? Politely… when have we ever been polite? I'd get why you'd blame me though and you'd be right! You're entitled. But I could never bear it if you'd wonder why you came!'_

**_Where did I go wrong?_ **

**_I lost a friend_ **

**_Somewhere along in the bitterness_ **

**_And I would have stayed up with you all night_ **

**_Had I known how to save a life_ **

A flash of a memory crossed Sherlock's thoughts. John, exhausted, the lab at Bart's, his head resting on the table, snoring slightly. And Sherlock himself, fidgeting with the squash ball in his hand, already planning how to use it later that day. He had been watching John in his sleep, the whole night, his heart already aching with his loss to come. There had been no other way. He had been convinced. And even now he didn't know if he could have done anything different. If that would have changed anything about their current messed up situation. 

But… was this what John was thinking. That he could have avoided it, if he had stayed up that night, talking Sherlock out if it, finding a different solution? If he had only known how? Did he really think he could have changed what happened? None of this was John's doing. If he'd really think so, it was in no way acceptable! Sherlock had to tell him. John was not allowed to blame himself for Sherlock's faults… for any of this!

**_Let him know that you know best_ **

**_Cause after all, you do know best_ **

Sherlock huffed a laugh. Yes, it was true. John did know best. So what if he's right? He's always right. It's boring. What would it change anyway?

**_Try to slip past his defense_ **

**_Without granting innocence_ **

**_Lay down a list of what is wrong_ **

**_The things you've told him all along_ **

**_And pray to God he hears you_ **

**_And I pray to God he hears you_ **

_'I heard you, John. I always heard you. Even when you hadn't been there. You've been the only one who slipped past my defense. I hadn't been able to maintain that defense the moment you limped into my life…'_

**_Where did I go wrong?_ **

**_I lost a friend_ **

Sherlock couldn't hold himself back. He couldn't leave it like this. He pulled out his phone. 

**send 09.47pm  
** **You didn't! And you didn't! SH**

John wasn't allowed to blame himself. Sherlock would not just accept it.

**_Somewhere along in the bitterness_ **

**_And I would have stayed up with you all night_ **

**_Had I known how to save a life_ **

Did John really not know? Wasn't he aware? How was that even possible!

**send 09.52pm  
** **But you did, John! SH**

John had to know! Sherlock had even told him! John couldn't be _that_ stupid?

**_As he begins to raise his voice_ **

**_You lower yours and grant him one last choice_ **

**_Drive until you lose the road_ **

**_Or break with the ones you've followed_ **

_'John, that choice had already been made. Didn't you realise? This isn't a choice you've granted me. It was the only sensible decision. Are you aware of what happens when you lose the road while driving? Especially if you drive as fast as we both lived our life… I don't think we would survive that… and I'd never risk your life, John. Never again!'_

**_He will do one of two things_ **

**_He will admit to everything_ **

**_Or he'll say he's just not the same_ **

**_And you'll begin to wonder why you came_ **

  
  


_'I'm not, John. I'm not the same. And neither are you! That's the whole problem. Or is it? Is it a problem?'_

He had thought… he had _hoped..._ it would be a chance. It would change them. It did though… but not the way he had hoped.

**_Where did I go wrong?_ **

**_I lost a friend_ **

**_Somewhere along in the bitterness_ **

**_And I would have stayed up with you all night_ **

**_Had I known how to save a life_ **

This though… it sounded hopeless, it sounded … bitter, it sounded drained, resigned, unhappy and tired. This was _not_ what Sherlock had wanted. He wanted to make it easier for John. He wanted to make it easier for himself. The only thing he had achieved though was that he felt more lost than at any other point in his life. Because he was once again the reason for John's misery. Even though all he wanted was to do the right thing. John though was the reason for so much more in Sherlock's life. How could Sherlock do that to him, when he owed him so much. He had to do something about that. But what? It doesn't have to mean he had to abandon his plan completely, but he had to fix this part. 

Sherlock stopped reading here. Everything was said. Everything was heard. He felt the need to actually hear it and searched for the song to listen to it. 

He was still engulfed in the music when his phone vibrated. Lost in thought and drowned in the sounds he hadn't even heard the signal. 

His heart started to beat a little faster. He didn't dare to hope that it'd be John, but he still did. He couldn't help it. Damnit, this wasn't going according to plan. The plan was that Sherlock would leave John alone, John would be happy, Sherlock would stoically deal with it. That. Was. The. Plan. Fuck.

And here he was, holding his phone in his slightly trembling hand and trying to calm down his respiration rate. Because having amnesia and needing help is a totally different matter than to have given up hope on fixing the conflicts you have with your… your… friend? Flatmate? Colleague? 

He was nervous because he didn't know what to expect. At the same time he was afraid of making a fool out of himself. 

He tapped on the screen. Read the text. And frowned.

**received 10.34pm  
** **I what and I what and I what?**

Sherlock checked his own texts, his gaze flipping back and forth between the screens of the laptop and phone before realisation dawned. Of course he had to spell it out for John. After all, he'd always be the idiot that he claimed not to be.

Sherlock didn't realise the soft smile spreading on his lips. The corners of his eyes crinkled in affectionate amusement and his heartbeat accelerated smoothly as if lifted by a warm summer breeze.

**send 10.38pm** **  
****John. It's not your fault. You couldn't have changed a thing. Don't blame yourself, you** **_didn't_ ** **go wrong! And you'll never lose my friendship! John, it's yours. It's not negotiable. You know the saying of the friends and the stars? I'm not good with stars, but I mean it. Even if you may not see me, if I'm not around, I'll** **_always_ ** **be your friend! Never forget that! SH**

Sherlock swallowed. A lump forming in his throat. 

**send 10.42pm  
** **And of course you know how to save a life!  
** **Trust me on that, I should know, you saved mine so many times and in so many ways.  
** **You're the only one who could. SH**

Sherlock held his breath. This… was not… the plan. He tried to ignore the horror creeping up his intestines. What had he done? Why, for hell's sake, had he said this? Send this? Where had it come from? Sherlock's knee was nervously bouncing up and down. 

He startled when his phone chimed.

**received 10.46pm  
** **Sherlock? What do you want from me?**

John must think he had gone insane. Or… or… that he was… using. Or any other kind of mind meddling anything. John needed to know! 

**send 10.48pm  
** **John, I know how to save a life now! SH**

After a short moment that seemed to be endless.

**received 10.50pm  
** **Do you?**

Sherlock Holmes, for once in your life, don't be a coward… 

**send 10.52pm** **  
****Yes. I have to see you. We need to talk. SH**

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/lXcX5llJeko)
> 
> * * *
> 
> The topic of amnesia was novel to me, so I had to do a lot of research. Sherlock's research is basically my research (and it really was this bizarre!!). I can't guarantee the accuracy of all facts (you all know the internet)... so, my apologies for possibly incorrect information to everyone with experiences or expertise with amnesia!!
> 
> Here are some sources for background information...  
> [source 1](https://www.healthline.com/health/amnesia)
> 
> [source 2](https://www.scienceabc.com/humans/how-many-types-of-amnesia-are-there.html)
> 
> [source 3](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amnesia)


	10. The Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turned his head and looked Sherlock in the eyes for the first time in a long while. What he saw there caused a turmoil in his belly. What was this mix of emotions battling in Sherlock’s expression? At least, there were actual emotions. This wasn’t the cold Sherlock throwing him out of Baker Street. Although he'd never actually done that, had he? John had left before he could. This also wasn’t Shezza 2.0, who had wiped out all emotions by exhaustion either. This was different. It was an open and raw overload of emotions that John couldn’t unravel, let alone understand and most of all not handle! He looked away quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,  
> *cleares throat*  
> here's a friendly reminder of the #happy ending tag and that you signed up willingly for the #angst tag...  
> all my love,  
> Yours sincerely (but emphasis on 'sin' for this chapter... sorry... not sorry),  
> loveismyrevolution
> 
> * * *
> 
> I don't know how to thank my betas enough for their enthusiasm and support, for everything they do for me despite the awful times we're in and that are affecting our lives! They're going beyond the borders of what's humanly possible. My very own superheroes!  
> You two are the soul and heart of this fic, lovelies!!!
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

The day was chilly. John walked through the gates of Regent’s Park and pulled the collar of his coat up, shivering slightly. He watched the sun play hide and seek with the clouds which hurried across the sky. The erratic pace of the shadows appearing and vanishing tricked the eye and made John jumpy. His nerves were on edge. He was over-aware of the noises around him, feeling people passing too close in his comfort zone. It made him shudder with annoyance. Although they couldn't know that John was about to burst out of his skin filled to the brim with worries and doubts and questions and regret. He clenched and unclenched his left hand, feeling the tremor that had been absent since the day of Sherlock's return. He was shivering from frosty defensiveness inside his chest, but at the same time he felt much too hot beneath his skin from a smouldering hopefulness. From the anticipation of seeing Sherlock again, in the flesh, eye to eye. He didn’t really understand why. This was just Sherlock he was meeting, no stranger, but his best friend. Only, there was no such thing as ‘just’ between them these days.

Sherlock had agreed to talk. That was what John had wanted in the first place. Only… now that the moment had come, he actually didn’t know what to say. _'Please, let’s forget the last months, just pretend we’re still us? Please, let me stay in your life no matter which way? Please let me help you? Please don’t shut me out, even if you find someone else?'_... He cringed. He wasn’t so sure that was something he could say out loud. Of course, Sherlock’s happiness was all that mattered to him. He himself would cope.That was what the song on the usb device was about, wasn’t it? I’ll protect you, if you want me to or not. I’ll help you find the way of life that makes you happy, if it includes me or not. But… would he really survive seeing Sherlock with someone else? Would he be able to contain himself, to let Sherlock have with another person what John so desperately wanted to give to him himself?

At least, now he could be that honest with himself. That this was what it had always been. The feeling hadn’t changed, but now… it had a name! And he couldn’t deny that name. He didn’t want to deny… that he… loved Sherlock Holmes. Just the thought of it made John’s heart beat faster. Yes. He wanted to scream it from the top of the roofs. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes! 

Only… he couldn’t say it. Of course not. Sherlock had made it clear that John wasn’t the person he wanted. He wanted distance. John could give him that. His mission now was, rescuing the last remaining shreds of their friendship so that he wouldn’t have to live a life without Sherlock. Hopefully, ever again. They had to find new grounds, find a new balance. They had tried to go back and that hadn’t worked out well, so forward was the only direction to go now. Better get used to it. 

He inhaled deeply and realised that he had slowed his steps. He was still trying to avoid it. This was ridiculous. He wanted it. Sherlock had agreed on it. He had even been the one to initiate it in the end, after John’s lame drunken attempts. He was still embarrassed about it, but well… it had led to this. So, that was… good. Kind of. Wasn’t it?

After that text message from Sherlock, after Sherlock had apparently discovered the song and understood what John had wanted to say, John had gotten cold feet. He hadn’t dared to answer immediately, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of possible outcomes of such a talk. He started to wonder if he maybe had only acted upon the hope Sherlock would decline anyway. Always easy to blame someone else for your own cowardice. _'What sort of soldier are you, Watson?_ ' But no, he may have been drunk and Sherlock had been uncharacteristically off target believing John would suffer from amnesia causing all their problems… but John really did want to see Sherlock. Talk to Sherlock. Try to find out what was left for him, for them. John needed to know.

So in the end he had texted back. That yes, they could meet. And yes, Regents Park would be as good as everywhere else. And no, it didn’t matter when. And okay, the next day 5pm was fine. 

And that was now. 

He sped up his pace. They had agreed to meet at the Espresso bar for a coffee to go and then afterwards just stroll through the park. He heard the gravel scrunch beneath his feet. Smiling he wondered what Sherlock would be able to deduce from this specific sound. Probably which road he had taken and how long he had already been walking. Which was hours. He hadn’t been able to stay at Greg’s and wait. But he had nowhere else to go to. So he had walked the streets and let his thoughts roam free. Not that it had had any useful effect whatsoever.

When he rounded the last corner he stopped in his tracks. There was Sherlock. He sat on a bench across from the bar. The endless legs stretched out, half hidden under his long coat. His head hung between his shoulders and his hands were clenched in his lap. Next to him on the bench there were two paper cups, no doubt filled with coffee just the way John liked it best. John smiled warmly. These were the little things in which Sherlock had changed so much. When in the beginning, when John first met him, he had not even understood a kind offer directed at himself, he was now the one considerate enough to already suffer through the queue, order and pay for someone else and then on top of it… wait for the other person to arrive before having his own drink. This little gesture made his heart swell. _'Well done, Sherlock',_ he wanted to say. _'I’m proud of you',_ he wanted to say. But how childish was that? Sherlock would huff. _'It is just coffee',_ Sherlock would say.

So, John swallowed, squared his shoulders and walked over. He sat next to Sherlock on the bench and without saying a word or even acknowledging him, Sherlock handed over the coffee. Their fingers brushed for a tiny moment and John wanted to jolt back in reflex but that would have made the coffee fly. And what would Sherlock deduce of that? Inevitably his thoughts went back to his nightly wank and he turned his face away from Sherlock in the attempt to hide the probably plain evidence of the nature of his thoughts. Right this moment, John's mind was that muddled by the memories that he wasn't even sure if they had ever touched for real before! This felt so new. This felt different. This felt thrilling and terrifying at the same time. Of course they had, he scolded himself. They had even held hands, although John had been Sherlock’s pretended hostage back then. John had patched Sherlock’s injuries up more than once. And he had hugged him at his own wedding of course. And he had… John swallowed thickly, why were his thoughts always straying back to that point… he had touched Sherlock, Sherlock’s cold hand, taken a non-existing pulse. He had wanted to pull Sherlock in his arms, brush the bloody curls from his forehead, hold him, hug him, squeeze him back to life. 

He had tried to make up for it the last couple of days, had cared for Sherlock, had taken his pulse more often than necessary only to feel it thump under his fingers, to make sure that Sherlock was still there, that this time John was allowed to do what he had been denied back then. What he wanted most. To keep Sherlock safe. Even if it could never be more than just that.

John cleared his throat and sniffed away the tears threatening to fill his eyes. 

“Are you… alright?” He heard the deep velvety voice next to him ask hesitantly. Christ, when had Sherlock Holmes ever been this cautious around John. This was not okay.

“No, not really… but uhm… yeah, I am, thanks.” John huffed, an unhappy laugh colouring his voice. He pretended to look up at the sky to stop the wetness from forming actual tears and squinted his eyes, when the sun broke through.

“Doesn’t make sense, John.” Sherlock stated.

“No. No, it doesn’t.” John laughed, the humour reaching neither his eyes nor his heart. “But what has recently, Sherlock?” 

He turned his head and looked Sherlock in the eyes for the first time in a long while. What he saw there caused a turmoil in his belly. What was this mix of emotions battling in Sherlock’s expression? At least, there were actual emotions. This wasn’t the cold Sherlock throwing him out of Baker Street. Although he'd never actually done that, had he? John had left before he could. This also wasn’t Shezza 2.0, who had wiped out all emotions by exhaustion either. This was different. It was an open and raw overload of emotions that John couldn’t unravel, let alone understand and most of all not handle! He looked away quickly. 

“Everything.” said Sherlock.

“Good for you then.” John ground his teeth together. 

“Why are you angry?” Sherlock asked and turned his head, watching John.

“Really, Sherlock?” John hissed furiously. He shifted on the bench to face Sherlock. But when he met the sincerely puzzled gaze on his friends face his anger evaporated like mist in the sunlight. 

“Yes, of course, I know you have all the right to be angry. With me only ever burdening you, letting you down. I should have helped you… after Mary… let you do whatever you wanted to do. Not make you… Maybe I shouldn't have come back… And then afterwards and now… taking to old habits.” Sherlock winced a bit.

“That’s not… no… you didn’t…” John didn’t know where to start, his thoughts getting tangled with his words.

“John, please.” Sherlock looked pleadingly at him and John fell silent. “You’re entitled.” Sherlock said calmly and lowered his gaze. Watched his hands, which were now folded around the paper cup. Engulfing it nearly entirely. When John vehemently shook his head no and sucked in air to contradict him, a deep frown appeared on the bridge of Sherlock’s nose and he spoke hastily without giving John the chance to voice his thoughts. 

“I'm well aware of what I did to you. I can't change the past. It's all there, it has all happened. You can't undo that, John. Please, don't try to deny it. Don't just brush it off.” 

John swallowed, not sure how to convince Sherlock that he was wrong. With all of it. But this wasn’t the moment. Sherlock wouldn’t accept any of it. Sherlock would refuse anything John had to say. When Sherlock spoke again he sounded small, defeated, insecure.

“What I mean is… why are you angry now, right this moment. Have I done something wrong?” He lifted his eyes almost shyly and that destroyed the last ounce of John’s anger. 

No, John thought, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He had been here in time, he had come at all in the first place... had bought coffee and waited for him, had asked him how he was… John had no right to throw all his frustration on Sherlock. That was what he had vowed to himself. Give Sherlock all the space he needed and deal with his own demons by himself. And when all the recent developments were alright… no... even _made sense_ to Sherlock… What had he to offer?

“No, of course, you’re right… sorry.” John said silently. He turned back to his former sitting position, away from Sherlock, facing ahead, not having to look at each other. An emotional gap of the size of the Grand Canyon between them. They stayed silent for a moment, and when they broke it, they spoke at the same time.

“You know, Sherlock, it’s just... for me, it’s…” John tried to start explaining.

“John, you have to understand that I realised…” Sherlock said at exactly the same moment.

They both went silent again, but John desperately wanted to hear what Sherlock had to say, wanted to understand. And maybe he was still a bit scared about what would happen if he opened his mouth and all his confused thoughts just came tumbling out without sorting, without filter. So much he wanted to say, so much that couldn’t be said. So he swallowed it back and gestured at Sherlock.

“No, go on, Sherlock…”

Sherlock cleared his throat and didn’t look at John, when he picked up where he had stopped. His hands still clutched the coffee cup and John was afraid he would crumple it with hot coffee and all the way he squeezed it. Sherlock took a deep breath.

“Well… yes… I realised…” He trailed off, coughed slightly. 

“John, you have to understand… and I think you agree with me on that… that the last couple of months haven’t been easy for me. And… that… hasn’t been your fault! Not at all! Well… not the way you… doesn’t matter.” He shook his head slightly. “What I’m trying to say is, that sometimes one has to make compromises… but sometimes it’s better to make clear decisions.” He looked up then and John saw plain and pure pain in his mesmerising eyes. Here we go, thought John. Good then, that I haven’t spoken first, it would have been humiliating…

“Maybe we should accept that the way we live… now… isn’t good for either of us.” Sherlock swallowed, hard. 

Well then, the hole in the ground had opened up after all. But John Watson wouldn’t be a soldier, if he couldn’t handle a major crisis. And even more, this was one he had actually foreseen. Although the world around him started to whirl, John tried to focus.

“Yeah… yeah. You’re right. It wasn't a walk in the park recently. I’m glad that we’re finally talking about it though… became a bit an… elephant in the room, ha...” John tried his best to make it more bearable, most of all for himself. Reign in the beast of pain that threatened to break free. To be honest without telling the truth.

“Therefore, I thought it might be better if we tried to sort our lives again and I’m fairly sure that…" Sherlock hesitated again, but only briefly. When he continued, he spoke as if he was in a hurry. As if his words would vanish if he'd not speak them fast enough. "I made some arrangements and you should be able to build a life that isn’t as heavily influenced by me as it is now. You need to be more independent, John. Otherwise it becomes suffocating.” 

Here it was then. Black on white. No, rather spoken into the air. But with an actual voice, out loud, plain to hear. Not to be denied. A confession. Sherlock felt suffocated by John. He wanted John to be more independent from him, which means Sherlock wanted to be more independent from John. It fit the picture. It all fell into place. 

“You mean… I should… move out?” John tried to have a confirmation, his voice much smaller than intended. 

“You already did, didn’t you?” Sherlock spat. There was a sharpness in it that John hadn’t expected. Sherlock glared at him now.

“Hey, no need to…” John wanted to calm the mood, but Sherlock interrupted him.

“As I said before, if you paid attention, it would be preferable, if the situation wouldn’t be reversed in any sort of way… so what I actually want to express is, don’t move out, but _stay_ out. Apparently you have found a suitable living space for the time being.” He sounded sour. Why did he sound sour? Was it because his ‘arrangements’ hadn’t been necessary after all? Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted? In that case, why was he that annoyed with John?

“But… we’re still… friends. Are we?” John didn’t know if he wanted to hear the answer. But he had to know. Sherlock seemed so angry. Was he that desperate to get rid of John?

Sherlock jolted at that question, he looked in bewilderment at John, eyes wide.

“Of course… of course, we are, John! I told you that. In my text. Don’t you remember?? You’ll always be my friend. No matter what.” He even looked a bit desperate now, panicked, John thought. He couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening here. He was losing track of Sherlock’s train of thought, of his change of mind. He felt fuzzy. They spoke with each other, but did they talk? 

The clouds had fully covered the sky by now and the dusk set in. The wind had picked up a bit and ruffled Sherlock’s hair. John saw that he shivered. He must be cold.

“Let’s walk a bit, yeah?” He asked to buy himself some time to clear his mind. Sherlock stood silently. After a moment in which John tried to make sense of what he had heard, Sherlock was the first to break the silence again.

“It’s just… I hoped that there'd be no need to make this more complicated than necessary.” Sherlock said while he measured his steps to John’s shorter ones. Both watching the ground beneath their feet. “I… I just…” He stopped again, mere metres away from the bench. He looked at John and scanned his face. They stood close enough that John could see every line on Sherlock’s face. They had become more and deeper. His face told the whole story of a whirlwind of a life. He looked tired, drained. He looked the way John felt. They both were a mess.

“To be honest… I can’t…” He raised his hand a bit from where it hung at his side. John’s heart skipped a beat when for a brief moment he thought Sherlock would take his hand. Sherlock’s hand lingered in the air for the fracture of a moment, but in the end he pushed it violently into his coat pocket and started walking again.

“John, I can’t… I just can’t stand it anymore.” He said with much more force now. He also sped up his steps and John hurried to follow. “You have to understand.”

What couldn’t he stand, thought John. The situation as a whole? Their proximity? John in general? 

“What… what do you mean? What precisely can’t you stand?” John called after him.

“Everything. All of it.” Sherlock grunted without slowing his steps.

“If that’s what you… okay then… that’s… a lot!” John felt the ground beneath his feet vanish. All the hope he had left seeped into the nothingness of void around him, vanishing in the black hole his future had become. But unfortunately, he himself wasn’t swallowed by it, not yet. Here he was, next to Sherlock, but further apart than they have ever been. What did this mean though? What did he have to expect?

“So what’s the plan? I just stay away? And you…we… live on our own again?” John huffed while jogging next to Sherlock.

“Yeah, sort of…” Was all Sherlock answered. 

John’s insides froze. Sort of? Sort of… on his own? But not really? Was there already someone else? Was John replaced already? Had Sherlock found another… companion? But they were still… friends! That was what Sherlock had said, right? 

He stopped and grabbed Sherlock’s coat sleeve. The detective turned immediately and studied John, frowning.

“What?” He looked genuinely clueless.

“Sherlock. I can’t stand this either.” John started, but of course Sherlock couldn’t wait for him to finish. 

“See. Exactly what I mean.” Sherlock tugged at his sleeve to free it from John’s grasp. But John held on steadily.

“Not what I mean. Maybe I’m an idiot… no I definitely know I am.” This caused at least a little amused huff from Sherlock and John smiled shyly in relief. “But… I don’t understand. Maybe I have to get that on a shirt, but I still don’t understand. What do you want from me, Sherlock? Do I have to stay away? Do you need time and space for some… uhm… something else? Don’t you want me to come to cases anymore? Do you… I don’t know.” He threw his free hand in the air in exasperation. “What can I do, Sherlock? Help me out here! I don’t see it anymore. I need some clarity!” And he shook Sherlock’s arm slightly as if he could shake the whole detective from his sleep with it.

“I’m glad we agree on clarity, John. That’s... all I wanted actually. Sorry, you know I’m not good with words.”

“Rubbish.” John huffed, but still didn’t let go. 

“And yes, some-… uhm... -thing else came up and will need my attention.” 

John let go of Sherlock’s arm and it fell to his side like a dead limp. He stared at Sherlock. So it was true. Some’ _thing_ ’ else came up… right. 

“Right. Okay. Just… uhm… tell me, if you… uhm… need my help. Yeah?” He nodded violently, more to convince himself than to convince Sherlock. “With… anything, really. Just say the word, yeah? I’ll be…” He gestured vaguely with his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be on my way then yeah? Glad, we’ve spoken. I’ll… uhm… stay out of your way then. Shall I?” He turned on his heels, took a step and turned back. “Just… take care, yeah? And we’ll…” He fished his phone out of his coat pocket. “We’ll talk?” He asked unsure. He still didn’t know how far this ‘I-need-my-space-thing’ would go.

When Sherlock said nothing, just stood there and observed John, he turned and hurried away.

“John!” Sherlock yelled. John didn’t stop.

“John… wait!” He heard Sherlock’s footfall run after him. John didn’t stop.

“For God’s sake, John. Wait!” He got jerked around at his shoulders and found himself face to face with a panting Sherlock. He held his gaze and saw that Sherlock’s eyes shifted back and forth between his own, contemplating, evaluating. When he spoke again, his voice was steady, reassuring and soothing. But also desperate and pleading. He kept John’s shoulders in a tight grip.

“This is not how I wanted this to go, John.” Sherlock kept looking at John as if he wanted to transport something just by looking. “All I wanted to tell you, is that it is not your fault. Nothing of it. It never was. It’s me, okay? And I'm sorry.”

“Is this the ‘it is not as it seems’ talk? It’s me not you? Yeah? ‘We could still be friends’?” John mimicked the quote marks and huffed.

“But we are.” Sherlock looked puzzled. “At least that's what I hoped.”

“Sherlock…” John groaned in pain. 

Sherlock looked wary, haunted, anxious even. Suddenly a slight glimmer shone in his eyes.

“John, apparently I’m really not good with this. I keep making a mess of it. But do you know… the reason?” He looked John in the eye and engulfed him with the piercing intensity of his gaze.

“No. No, Sherlock. I really don’t. That’s the whole problem!” John nearly shouted. “What’s the reason? Tell me! Because I honestly don’t understand it!”

“No, John. No. You don’t understand…” Sherlock lowered his head, broke the gaze. His grip on John’s shoulder not faltering. When he raised his head again, he closed his eyes and spoke slowly and very intently.

“John… do you—by any chance—know the reason?” He snapped his eyes open, looking as if John had to know. His annoying ‘we know’ face… his face. His lovely face. 

John felt lost. He didn’t get it. Sherlock wanted to tell him something, and he didn’t get it. He studied Sherlock desperately. Sherlock lowered his face, mere inches away from John’s. Shaking him slightly. 

“Think, John. Think!” John felt almost bare under Sherlock’s scrutinising eyes. “Do you… by any chance… know... _the reason_?” He spoke very slowly, very deliberately. He emphasised the last two words and something in that rang a bell. It sounded familiar. Hadn’t he asked Sherlock the same question? Not entirely but… hadn’t he wanted to tell Sherlock something, too. _'Do you by any chance know… how to save a life?',_ he had asked.

His eyes widened in realisation. He fumbled for his phone and tried to open it with trembling fingers.

“Do you mean… is it…” He had the browser open and was about to start typing, when a big hand closed around his and stopped him in his efforts.

“No. Don’t. Not yet. Do it… later.” Sherlock winced a bit, tilted his head. “No… do it … tomorrow. Tomorrow is good.” He nodded once and looked pleadingly at John. “Please.” He whispered. 

John swallowed. Sherlock squeezed his hand slightly. The screen had long gone dark again.

“Promise!” Barely a breath.

“Okay.” John whispered back, mouth dry. “Okay, I promise.”

Neither of them moved, the moment frozen in time. When finally, Sherlock took in a shuddering breath, John woke from his trance. Sherlock lingered a moment. A warm thumb stroked lightly like a feather over Johns knuckles and with that the detective let go of John's hand, turned and hurried away. His long coat billowing behind him. Curls in disarray where the cold breeze tore at them.

The moment he stepped on the boat, John heard Greg shift on the sofa, folding the papers he had apparently been reading. He had hoped for some solitude and squeezed his eyes shut.

“How did it go?” Greg eyed him carefully.

“How did what go?” John asked flatly, turning his back on Greg, avoiding his gaze.

“Oh come on, John. You met Sherlock, right? How is he? Did you talk?” Greg inquired.

“How do you…” John turned towards Greg and made a face. “Never mind. I don’t care.” He turned away again. 

“And not the point. Not really difficult, too." Greg nodded to himself. "Point is: any progress? With… whatever?” Greg raised his eyebrows.

“If you must know,” John glared at Greg, annoyed. “No!” 

“No to what?” Greg stubbornly kept on pushing.

“No to all of it!” John suddenly yelled. All the bottled up tension breaking free and hitting the wrong man. Luckily, Greg wasn’t impressed easily, having handled Sherlock for several years. He just sat quietly on the sofa and waited for the first wave of anger to ebb away. John scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed.

“I don’t know Greg. I think… I lost him. It’s all gone to shit.” His voice was thick with sorrow.

The realisation sank in, now it was given voice, and it hung heavily in the air between them.

“Beer?” Greg suddenly asked cheerfully and stood.

“Huh?” John’s head jerked up at the sudden change of mood.

“Beer?!” Greg asked again, now standing by the fridge, holding the door open and waving a bottle at John. When John didn’t answer Greg said: “That’s what we always do, yeah? Have beer and talk. And it always works. And it will work now. Because, as far as I see, the world is still turning.” Greg picked two bottles and some nibbles and settled back on the couch. 

John shrugged almost invisibly and after a few strides slumbed on the sofa next to Greg. He took the bottle, gulping half of it down in one go and let his back fall against the backrest. Greg, already in the same position, head leaning backwards, feet planted on the couch table, turned his head without raising it and looked at John.

“Well…?” He prompted. When John only stared at the ceiling, he added: “Now comes the talking part, you know…” 

John had to smile against his will and turned his head too.

“I honestly don’t know, Greg.” He said silently and swallowed. “I mean… most of the time it was Sherlock talking…”

“Ha… tell me something new!” Greg interrupted him laughing. John couldn’t help but join him. After that, talking came a bit easier.

“He… he said a lot, you know, but… half of the time I didn’t understand a damn thing he was saying! Like… What did he want to tell me? Greg, really… I still don’t know! But in the end… I think… yeah, I think,” John sighed, “He doesn’t need me anymore, Greg. In his life I mean. Wants distance. Has something new.” His voice was bitter and he knew Greg realised. It wasn’t long then before Greg interrupted.

“How do you mean… something new?” Greg raised one eyebrow.

“How am I supposed to know?” John gestured, nearly sloshing his beer on Greg’s face. “That’s what he said. And the way he said it, it sounded more like a some _one_ than a some _thing_ … if you get my drift…” John spat frustrated.

“Nooo… not really getting it.” Greg shook his head slightly, at a loss.

“A _partner_ , Greg.” John grunted. “And in more ways than just… me. Than I have been, I mean.” He hissed bitterly. “That’s what he said.”

“He actually said that? Sherlock?” Greg suddenly sat up in surprise, eyes wide.

“No… not exactly said… not in words…” John squirmed. When he only met Greg’s puzzled gaze, he sighed. “I don’t know Greg, but that’s the vibe I get.”

“The vibe?” Greg said flatly, his gaze not shifting, same puzzlement. “You get a… vibe… from Sherlock?”

“Christ, Greg!” John shouted and slammed his bottle on the table, hunched forwards and grasped his hair. “He didn’t say it, alright. It’s just… I heard it… in,” John winced, embarrassed about his own assumptions. In the general direction of his knees he now mumbled. “There was this song, okay. He was da… no… no, not the point. Don’t ask why, but I know it was important to him, and that was what this song was about. That he needed someone. That he wanted someone. Quite desperately if you ask me. Yeah, and now… shit Greg, now he said there was something that needed his attention.” John straightened, looked up at Greg, lost. “Do you understand, Greg? He wants distance from me. And he has found something new, whatever or whoever that is. He… doesn’t need me anymore.” John’s stomach twisted and he felt the weight of the words spoken aloud settle on his heart. 

“And what did you say to that?” Greg asked matter-of-fact. 

“Nothing.” John swallowed.

“You’re not serious, are you?” Greg lowered his chin to stare at John in disbelief.

“What was I supposed to say?” John heard himself say.

“Uhm… don’t know… let me think for a moment,” Greg said in mock contemplation, the cloud of fury nearly palpable around him. “Maybe, for a starter, that he’s a fucking idiot. Or… you could have kicked his arse and told him that he’s talking bullshit! What about telling him that _you_ need _him_ , huh? That you’re a bloody rotting potato without him and that he isn’t any better. Maybe remind him how he was before he met you? That you’re both … without each other... not even half the man of who you are, when you’re together? Yeah, I could think of a thing or two to say!” Greg was now getting seriously angry. “Goddamn, John. Does he even know you love him?” 

John sucked in a sharp breath and stared at Greg in horror. He felt lightheaded and there was a faint thrumming in his ears. He wished the ground would open and swallow him up. But when he surfaced again, he realised that Greg was looking empathically at him, friendly, supporting, worried.

“That obvious, am I?” He said weakly and glanced at Greg out of the corner of his eye.

“Actually… yes.” Greg said goodnaturedly. 

“Yeah… there’s that then.” John huffed.

A pensive silence fell between them, each man lost in his own thoughts.

“You have to tell him, John.” Greg said finally. 

“If only I could.” John’s voice was thin with regret.

“Of course you can!” Greg squeaked in friendly annoyance. “You know… open your mouth… voice and all… and say it. Easy!”

“Greg,” John laughed sadly. “You know how Sherlock is.”

“Yes, exactly.” Greg rumbled. “I know how Sherlock is. And that’s exactly why I know, that he’d never realise something like that on his own. With all that genius mind of his… he’s a big dumbass idiot!” 

John had to actually giggle at that. 

“Yes. Yes, he is.” He agreed affectionately, smiling, thinking of said man.

“And so are you!” Greg exclaimed, punching John's biceps.

“Oi!” John glared at Greg without meaning it.

“No, really, John.” Greg said, serious now. “It would be a damn shame if this went to hell. You have to talk to him!” He insisted.

“I tried, Greg. I tried.” John slumped back against the sofa. He closed his eyes and tried to let the emptiness take over and soothe the pain, but it wouldn’t come.

“So… this is it?” Greg asked helplessly.

“That’s what it looks like.” John answered, drained.

“Nothing to go on with?” Greg apparently couldn’t let it go.

“Well… he left me something.”John started to say, when Greg immediately latched on to it.

“What? What is it? Show!”

“No… not really a thing… more like… a clue.” John told him.

“Yeah… that sounds like Sherlock.” Greg huffed. “And? What sort of clue?”

“A song.” Was all John said.

“A song?” Greg said skeptically and looked over at him. “Like… on a record? Or what?”

“No. Just the name. Of the song. I had to look it up. But only tomorrow.” John said without hope that this would make a difference. Not after their conversation at the park. He appreciated Greg’s support and enthusiasm. But Greg hadn’t been there, in person. He hadn’t seen Sherlock, heard Sherlock. 

“Why tomorrow?” Greg crinkled his forehead in confusion.

“I had to promise him.” John sighed.

“And you are going to go along with his bullshit?” Greg fumed.

“Greg. I had to promise him. It’s the least I can do, no? Keep my promise?” John pleaded, the last bit of energy pouring into convincing himself, not giving into the temptation, the curiosity to know what Sherlock had wanted to say.

“You really are a fucking moron, John Watson!” Greg shook his head and slumbed angrily against the backrest. John had to agree, he probably was, but what did it matter anyway.

The rest of the day went by quietly until Greg announced he would go out.

“Why? Where?” John asked, perplexed.

“Imagine, I have a life outside of work and babysitting one John Watson.” Greg mocked. When John grimaced at him, he added: “Don’t want to be the same idiot as you are.” He threw John a sympathetic smile. “Going out with Molly.” He smirked. “If I’m not back tomorrow, you know where to find me!” With a wide grin he slipped into his jacket and rushed out the door. 

John didn't know how to kill time and paced back and forth in the small space the boat had to offer. In the end he settled, again, on the roof terrace although it was still windy and much too cold. The chilly air seeped even through the blanket John had picked from the sofa, but he couldn't bring himself to go back inside, dreading the suffocating construction of low ceilings and the small room. It hadn't bothered him before, but he now felt caged in here, trapped. Probably because now he really had nowhere else to go. This wasn't a stopover any longer. This was the final destination. With the addition that even here he couldn't stay. 

He sighed in relief when he heard Greg enter the boat, even though he wondered if everything was alright. But the moment he heard Greg's whistling he knew the date had gone well. He was torn by the contradictory feelings barreling in his chest. He was happy for his friend. Of course he was. Greg deserved some happiness and company and… love? And so did Molly. He wished them all the best and hoped that this would develop into something serious. But at the same time he felt heartsick with all the missed opportunities, with all lost chances. With everything that wasn't possible any more, no longer an option. 

"John?" He heard Greg call from inside.

"Yeah. On the roof!" He made himself known. 

"Alright?" Greg asked when he poked his head through the opening of the hatch.

"Well… not really." John said sadly.

When Greg ducked in again, John followed. Frozen to the core he now welcomed the warmth of the room. Greg hung his jacket, still glowing from the apparently good evening he'd had. John watched him, his heart aching. 

"So, what are you doing?" Greg asked, clearly avoiding to talk about his evening, probably to spare John. 

"Waiting for it to be tomorrow." John muttered tired. 

"John, don't be a fool!" Greg had enough. "Just… dunno… look it up, yeah?" He threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. 

John winced.

"Look, it's the middle of the night, yeah?" Greg shifted his position, hands on his hips. He licked his lips. "Just past midnight which means technically tomorrow." He nodded in John's direction. "Do it John, what are you waiting for?" 

John dropped his head into his hands. He sighed deeply. Running his fingers through his hair, he inhaled.

"I'm scared, Greg." He breathed out.

"Yeah, I gathered that much. But what can actually happen? Can't get much worse, right?" Greg came over to him. Stood next to him, providing comfort without crowding him. John was grateful. He had never been aware what good a friend Greg actually was to him. 

"Do you want me to stay?" Greg asked quietly.

"Would you?" John asked back without lifting his head.

"Of course. Nothing Sherlock has to offer can shock me anymore." Greg smiled reassuringly at John who had finally raised his eyes. 

They sat at the kitchen counter, John fishing his phone from his back pocket. He felt ridiculous. What did he expect? He had made a fool of himself. Making far too much fuss about a silly song. Poor Greg who had to put up with him. 

So get it over with and out of his system to give it all some closure.

John typed the two words into the search bar and was immediately rewarded with an unmissable link to a music vid including lyrics and all. 

He threw Greg a glance who nodded and John tapped the screen. He dropped the phone on the kitchen counter between them with a hollow thump which echoed back in John's chest, picked up by his heartbeat, echoed endlessly until it faded into nothingness like a terrified cry for help from the bottom of a rift.

[The video started playing](https://youtu.be/bzfytpmzOg4), the first rhythmic beats crackled out of the sorry excuse of a speaker on John's cheap phone and they both fell silent.

  
  


**_I'm not a perfect person_ **

**_There's many things I wish I didn't do_ **

**_But I continue learning_ **

**_I never meant to do those things to you_ **

**_And so I have to say before I go_ **

**_That I just want you to know_ **

**_I've found a reason for me_ **

**_To change who I used to be_ **

**_A reason to start over new_ **

**_And the reason is you_ **

**_I'm sorry that I hurt you_ **

**_It's something I must live with everyday_ **

**_And all the pain I put you through_ **

**_I wish I could take it all away_ **

**_And be the one who catches all your tears_ **

**_That's why I need you to hear_ **

**_I've found a reason for me_ **

**_To change who I used to be_ **

**_A reason to start over new_ **

**_And the reason is you_ **

**_And the reason is you_ **

**_And the reason is you_ **

**_And the reason is you_ **

**_I'm not a perfect person_ **

**_I never meant to do those things to you_ **

**_And so I have to say before I go_ **

**_That I just want you to know_ **

**_I've found a reason for me_ **

**_To change who I used to be_ **

**_A reason to start over new_ **

**_And the reason is you_ **

**_I've found a reason to show_ **

**_A side of me you didn't know_ **

**_A reason for all that I do_ **

**_And the reason is you_ **

  
  


The music faded, John tapped the screen again and silence spread in the room uncomfortably. Even the water seemed to stop sloshing against the outer shell of the boat. Both men cautious, tentative, hesitant. 

None of them had spoken. None of them had moved. John wasn't even sure if he had been breathing. He was very sure that he hadn't been able to form any kind of thought. His mind had ceased to function. 

After a stretch of time John wasn't sure how long it had lasted, Greg cleared his throat.

"This is some serious shit, mate." When John only kept breathing shakily and didn't even do as much as look at him, he added: "This… Christ, John, even you must realise that… this… coming from Sherlock… is a fucking love declaration." 

John swallowed. And swallowed again. His voice refused to cooperate. When the tightness in his throat finally eased a bit, it came out raspy.

"Why didn't he say anything?" He lifted his eyes to beg Greg to help him out. Even though he was painfully aware that that wasn't within his power.

"Same reason you didn't, I guess." Greg said silently.

John looked back down at his hands, folded and trembling. He leaned on his elbows propped up on the kitchen counter to hold him upright. After a while he groaned and let himself fall forward until his forehead hit the wood of the kitchen counter with a thud. The dull pain seeping into his senses was a welcomed addition.

"I think this really is the moment to take action." Greg said to the back of John's head. "If you ask me…" He added, a bit insecure. "Now or never. You don't have anything to lose, do you? Time to make a decision… as my granny used to say: if you want something to change then something has to change. And you won't ever know if you don't try. And here's another one of my granny: You already have a 'no', but there's always a chance to get a 'yes' instead." He patted John's shoulder. "Think about it." And John heard him shuffling through the living room before the door to his bedroom clicked shut carefully. 

That night John couldn't bring himself to go to bed. Not even to lie down. For no idea how long he stayed where he was, sitting on the uncomfortable bar stool until his buttocks had passed the stage of pain and had settled into numbness. Eventually, he had to get up after all and for the first time since he stayed at Greg's home, he went over to the window facing the water and therefore also Battersea power station. He just looked and stared and watched and wished he could turn on the lights inside by pure willpower until his eyes began to water, which of course was due to not blinking for too long. That's what he told himself. He still felt as if he couldn't see it clearly enough, blaming the layer the window presented, separating him. So he went up to the roof; on his way he grabbed a blanket from the sofa and, cocooned in it, sat on one of the chairs looking in the direction he had avoided for so long, he had feared until now. 

He thought back to everything he had witnessed inside that building, out of reach now, deep dark waters flowing steadily and infinitely between them. He wished he could go back there, to those moments, turn back time! He would change so many things. Uncountable things. All the way back to their very first encounter. That though, was the only thing he wouldn't want to change for the world… meeting Sherlock. Meeting Sherlock had been the best thing that could have possibly happened to him. And he had kicked it with his feet over and over again. He had hurt Sherlock in so many ways he only now realised. 'I can't stand it anymore' Sherlock had said. John could see why. But Sherlock had also said 'It isn't your fault. It's all me'. Why did he think that? Just then it sunk in, that that too was John's fault. How often had he blamed Sherlock, for everything actually. Most of all the fall. Again and again the fall. This had to stop. They had to move on. Just not the way Sherlock was implying. Because… just look at them. They couldn't do it, not now. Not alone.

Feeling lost, John rubbed a hand over his face, lingered, the hand clasped over his mouth. Deep in thought, he turned his head slightly, slowly, and let his lips slide over the rough side of his forefinger. He felt his own warm breath ghost over his clammy skin. His focus shifted, from irrevocable incidents and past places to the here and now, to his own body. Narrowing down, turning an unintentional and insignificant touch into the centre of his attention. It felt strange, the contrast between the brushes of vivid warm puffs of air and the chilly nightly breeze. The rough cold skin of his knuckles, slightly numb, touch only registered like through a layer of wool, against the over-sensitive soft tissue of his lips. It was a give and take of sensation. The rough smoothing the soft, the warmth leaving traces on the cold. The tingling on the lips increasing, the numb fingers fading into the background of awareness. The overload of sensation made the tingle merge into numbness. The ongoing movement forces numb skin into sensation. Humid breath leaving a moist layer on knuckles where it brushed over them. Lips drying damp fingers under their warm touch. The soft slightly scratchy sound the contact caused recognised from inside and outside of his head. 

John closed his eyes. The touch felt personal, intrinsic, intimately physical; but also alien, as if it was him and not him at the same time. A bit like an out of body experience. Or like the presence of a ghost. John shivered at the thought. The feeling of icy water trickling down his spine turned into molten fire the moment he remembered the fleeting but electrifying brush of fingers on the bench. The tingling of his lips, still caressed by his hand, got hold of his whole body the moment he realised it was the same hand that had been holding the phone, on the brink of looking for the song. The same one that had been clasped in Sherlock's bigger one, warm one. That had been held, that had been caressed by Sherlock's thumb, secretly, cautiously. 

He swallowed, pressed the back of his hand against his slightly parted lips. He felt silly. He felt pathetic, hopelessly yearning, when he inhaled shakily, trying to collect and assimilate any trace Sherlock’s touch might have left behind. The thought alone of tiny fragments of Sherlock entering his body, coursing through his system made John’s head swim. Involuntarily, his tongue darted out to gather more of the man he longed for and the tip brushed against his skin. The contradictory feeling of the joltingly intense warm and wet touch on the otherwise insensitive back of his hand, heightened the feeling of dividedness, of being split in two. The slightly salty taste in his tongue faded and he wanted to chase it, if it meant to taste the faintest bit of Sherlock. In a twisted way of envisaging, he wanted to taste Sherlock's thumb, the one that had stroked John's hand. See if there, too, would linger a hint of John for Sherlock to take with him. He let his own thumb take over the wiping caress of his mouth. The tip of his tongue resting on his lower lips, catching a bit of the intense taste of the pad of the digit each time it brushed by. 

His mind, providing pictures of Sherlock's face, so close, eyes staring into John, so intense, was fogged, his senses heightened. The mental image of Sherlock being here, with him, made his breath come faster, sharper; the inevitable increase of warm air wafting over his hand, stirring the fine hairs on the back of it, raising goosebumps, caused a never-ending circle of accumulating sensitivity.

John groaned. He pressed his-Sherlock's thumb firmer against his lower lip, made it dip, slowly smearing the dampness gathered there in a trail over his chin. He dipped his head back and continued the path until the elevation of his Adams apple stopped it. He felt himself swallow, the sensation bouncing back and forth between him and not-him, reverberating between mind and soul. It made him swallow again in response to witnessing it on someone else, on himself, on Sherlock, on himself. 

Heart beating faster, pulse thumping in his ears he splayed Sherlock's-his fingers, hand pressed firmly against his throat. He felt the echoing of his pulse under the tips of his fingers, he sucked in a protesting breath against the slightly suffocating hold. The hand softened it's grip, trailed down, sliding skin over skin, warmth over cold, caressing and being caressed. When the cold fingers dipped under the collar of his shirt he drew in a sharp breath because of the jolting contrast in temperature of the intruding digits and the discovery of temptingly hot territory he needed to explore. 

Mind and body confused, whirling, dizzy, he felt himself sucked into a vortex of desire. A force unintentionally unleashed only the day before, the night before. Now being more than aware of the subject of his desire, molten into one with him, it only spiked his arousal. Tangled in his own clothes, John fumbled, one-handed, with his own shirt buttons. Impatiently pulling and tugging as if he couldn't wait to unwrap someone else's body, Sherlock's body. The other hand grazing over his still clothed chest, ghosting over fabric covered nipples. The jolting feeling when they hardened flashing through his body right to his groin, his rapidly filling cock, opposed the sensation of the tiny nubs forming under his fingertips, tempting him to rub firmer, to press harder. Panting with the enjoyment of his own and someone else's pleasure, he bent his back and pushed his head into the cushions of the chair and his chest into the restless hands. He tweaked greedily presented nipples and felt the satisfaction of them being tweaked. He rolled them between finger and thump and groaned deeply when a new wave of desire crushed over him. 

The shirt buttons finally freed, it got hurriedly ripped open and his vest tugged up to have access to naked skin, naked nipples. The rib cage underneath his hands was rapidly undulating, lifting and falling, and he felt the ragged breath rasping his throat and burning his lungs. A whiff of air sneaking underneath the blanket wavered over his naked torso. He rubbed the palm of one hand over the plain of his upper body to chase away the chill, leaving traces of goosebumps in its wake, setting his skin on fire. Underneath his palm he felt tiny twitches of abdomen muscles and the tickle of the more bristly hair just above the waistband. When his marginal pubic hairs caught in the calluses of the exploring hand and sent the tug and prickle through every fibre of his nervous system, involuntarily the other hand fiercely pinched the nipple it was teasing. 

"Oh god…," John moaned, out of breath. Hearing his own needy voice irritated him and sped him on. 

One hand diving deeper, sliding lower, chilly fingers brushing the side of a scorchingly hot erection. The other hand efficiently unbuckling the belt, opening the button, lowering the zip. He shifted, lifted his hips to push down trousers and pants while the other hand got in the way, battling for space to get hold of the cock, already rock hard, needily throbbing, flushed deep red. The moment he took himself in hand, he hissed. Ice meeting heat, desire meeting pleasure, giving and taking melting into one blazing ball of passion. He didn't know anymore where his own body ended and Sherlock's imaginary one began. He wanted to give him everything he himself longed for. He wanted to take everything he had to give.

Gripping and tugging on his hair, burying fingers in curls, groaning when teeth bit down on his lower lip, tugging rosy swollen nipples, reveling in the sharp sting searing through his synapses. His pleasure was building, mounting, the hand was flying over his cock. When precome started to wet the silky skin of the glans, the thumb was smearing it from slit to frenulum with every downward stroke. He bent his knee and dug the heel of one foot into the surface of the deck chair, needing more leverage. He lost his rhythm for a moment in the chase to meet the hand halfway, in the push up and back, in the give and take. The other hand took over for a better angle; the tighter grip made him gasp, the different stimulation setting new neurons on fire. It was too much. Feeling everything at the same time, being in two heads at the same time, two hearts racing, two orgasms building. 

"I can't…," he panted, "oh God, Sherlock, I…"

His scrotum started to tighten, his balls drawing up. The free hand traveled up to where it had started, wanted to cover his mouth, hinder the noises from escaping.

 _'Sherlock… Sherlock… Sherlock…'_ it echoed in his mind. _'Let go',_ he thought.

"Please," he whispered.

The thumb pushed past his lips, dipped into his mouth and when he whirled his tongue around it, started to suck it, he tasted his own come. His eyes flew open, his gaze immediately landing on the Battersea Station he had been facing. 

"Sherlock…," he gasped.

And he came, pictures of Sherlock, bare chested, flexing muscles, sunbathed skin flashing through his mind. John's upper body jerked up from the force of his orgasm, pulling the blanket along, which slithered from his shoulders and pooled in his lap. The sudden wave of chilly air engulfing him tore and tugged on the corners of his awareness, not yet fully capable of uncovering and clearing his mind and senses. 

Sitting in the cold, in the dark, breath coming in puffs, John slowly, slowly calmed down. After a while he started to shiver. He let himself fall back on the deck chair, wanted to tug his vest down and his pants up, but his hands were sticky and he realised that he came unprepared. He closed his eyes and huffed a laugh at the unintended pun. He lay there for a moment, the buzz still lingering, his body still humming from the intensity of the sensations. 

When he started to feel uncomfortable he shifted and wiggled to get up. He cringed when he felt damp and sticky goo being smeared over his thighs and belly. 

"Shit, shit, shit, buggering fuck,...," he cursed and plugged with pointed fingers at the blanket covering his private parts. He really must have been out of his mind. He was, he knew it, nothing had mattered anymore. Nothing but Sherlock and… _'oh God'..._ He squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh wave of heat rolled through his body. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked at the mess he'd made. There was nothing left to save, he just gave up. He crumpled the fabric where it was soiled and used the rest to wipe and clean hands and belly and groin area. After a short check he deemed his clothes tolerable and redressed himself. There was nothing to it, he had to do some laundry tomorrow. There also still was the evidence of yesterday night's incident hidden behind his backpack next to the sofa. Maybe it wouldn't look too suspicious if he'd just wash all his bed linens. 

Hunched on the chair, hugging his tugged up knees against the cold. His eyes traveling inevitably to the ghostly facet of the four chimneys of Battersea against the pinkish night sky above London. He sighed. How was this supposed to work in the future. Would this be the result of every time he thought about Sherlock in a moment of solitude? As pleasurable as it promised to be, this would tear him apart. He wouldn't be able to just go on like this forever.

 _'Time to take action'_ , was what Greg had said. _'You already have a 'no', but there's always a chance to get a 'yes' instead'_

John realised that he couldn't just accept a no. The emptiness would destroy him from inside out. It would eat him up until he was nothing but a hollow shell. Dragged along into the unfathomable depths of the waters, without destination, without purpose. 

He had to do something. But what? He also had to be careful. Sherlock had made it unmistakably clear that he wouldn't appreciate any kind of physical meeting. He hadn't refused John's suggestion of staying in contact though. He hadn't exactly confirmed it either, but it was at least a tiny hole in the black curtain enclosing them. Now he had to try to shine some light through it.

But not yet. Not now. It was still in the middle of the night. Not even dawn yet. Certainly this wasn't what Sherlock had meant by 'tomorrow'. John wouldn't compromise his only chance… his last chance… by disrespecting Sherlock's request, by being too eager, by being impatient. He was though. Impatient. He didn't want to waste any more time. The trepidation and restlessness were crawling across his skin like ants, thousands, millions of ants. It made him tingly, it made him anxious. 

He was lost in his thoughts, moving in circles, until the morning finally settled, brightening the sky with difficulty through the thick layer of clouds. He went back inside, made himself a cup of coffee. 

After he had stuffed the blanket into one of the big carriers they used for shopping, he had crammed the yesterday's sheets in, too, he sat on the sofa, warming his hands by hiding the mug of much too hot coffee. He looked at his phone and tried to hypnotise it into skipping time, into telling him what would be wise, into coming up with the perfect text. In the end, he had to accept that nobody would take this burden from him and picked up the phone. Approaching and reaching Sherlock had always been easiest by text, so that'd be the first course of action. 

  
  


**send 7.45 am  
** **It is tomorrow now. I did as you asked. I looked it up.**

And after a moment's hesitation...

**send 7.48 am  
** **It's beautiful, Sherlock. Thank you. The same goes for me btw!**

Oh… but wait...

 **send 7.49 am  
** **Although I should mention. I like you the way you are.**

Too much?

**send 7.50 am  
** **You don't have to change, is what I mean.**

Too evasive? 

God, this was even more nerve-wracking than years of service in Afghanistan. How was one supposed to do this. Why wasn't there a manual to handle the beautiful disaster that was this genius detective? John pondered if he should send another text, do something else, but decided he should give Sherlock at least a bit of time to react. He didn't want to push him, to crowd him… to suffocate him. Again.

He tried to carry on, just live through the morning. Eventually, Greg got up, headed to work after devouring a bowl of cereals in record time. They didn't mention the previous evening with a single word and John was grateful for it. 

John tried not to wait for it, not to have his hopes up, but the longer there was no response to his texts the deeper his heart sank. When the impatience and insecurity got the better of him, he couldn't resist.

**send 2.32 pm  
** **I don't expect you to do anything that you don't want. Just tell me if this is okay.**

He didn't get an answer. His hopes were faltering. Maybe he had got it all wrong. But this song. The song! Sherlock had chosen it deliberately. This wasn't random or just a personal preference. This was meant to be a message. Something that he hadn't been able to express in his own words. Nothing to misunderstand there. Hopefully. Why didn't Sherlock answer his texts then?

**send 4.48 pm  
** **Sherlock, just give me any sign. Please. John**

He was pacing the room, flipping the phone in his hand, checking it constantly as if there were any chance that he would miss the sound alert. Should he call? Should he wait? Should he take other measurements? Would that cross an invisible line? Why had that line to be invisible? Why not a bright red flashing signal saying "Don't cross this line! Serious risk to lose the love of your life! Back off!"? That would be very much appreciated. Damnit.

**send 5.32 pm  
** **Did I get it all wrong? The song? Please, Sherlock! John**

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. 

How long? Minutes stretched into eternity.

**send 6.05 pm  
** **Just one word, Sherlock. One word. That's all I need! John**

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. 

Did time still exist? 

**send 6.25 pm  
** **Yes? JW**

**send 6.33 pm  
** **No? JW**

**send 6.40 pm  
** **Fuck off? JW**

  
  


The day had stretched in agony from dawn till dusk. After the last texts, John had given up hope to get any reaction this way. He took the next step… crossing a line or no. He'd only know if he tried. That's what Greg had said. Pushing the speed dial 1 button he waited for the line to connect. He waited until the call was transferred to voicemail and then he cut the line. He didn't know what to say. He didn't want to talk to a stupid voicemail. He wanted to hear Sherlock's voice. He wanted a reaction from Sherlock. He wanted at least a word from Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock… 

He tried three more times, but each time he only got as far as the voicemail. It was apparent by then that Sherlock wouldn't pick up the phone. At least he would see that John had called. That he had tried.

When the door of the boat clicked open and Greg returned home after a long day's work, John whirled around. The man didn't even have the chance to hang his jacket, before he was confronted with John's frustration. 

"Nothing, Greg! Nothing!" John said urgently. "I can't reach him."

"Well, hello to you, too." Greg answered, yawning.

"No Greg, seriously. I texted, I called. He doesn't pick up, he doesn't answer. Uhg… this is driving me nuts." John moaned. 

"Did you go over? Baker Street, I mean?" Greg asked plainly.

"No. Didn't know, if… do you think I should? What if he doesn't want to see me?" John rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. 

"What if _you_ do? Want to see him, that is?" Greg kept asking. 

"I do. God help me, I do!" John sighed. 

"Well, what are you waiting for then?" Greg squeaked at him, seemingly only barely able to contain his frustration. 

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." John said. 

"Yes, I am. As usual!" Greg nodded, very pleased with himself.

During his day brooding inside the boat, John hadn't noticed how bad the weather had become. The rain poured down like an impassable curtain. Of course, John had neither a hood nor an umbrella and so it wasn't long before he was soaking wet. The water ran in small streams down his face and his neck as he rushed from boat to underground and from underground to… Baker Street. No, it wasn't home anymore. It was Baker Street. 

He rang the bell and also knocked for good measure. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. For a short moment he considered to seek shelter under the awning of Speedy's cafe only to dismiss it immediately, afraid to miss crucial seconds to make himself noticed. What if Sherlock closed the door before John even had a chance. So, standing in the rain it was. 

After a moment he heard some shuffling from inside and a faint shimmer appeared in the headlight. The lock clicked, the door opened and Mrs Hudson appeared half hiding, clutching her dressing gown shut in front of her chest. 

"Ohhhhh… John dear… it's you!!" She shouted in delight. "How lovely! But at this hour? Standing there in the rain? Come in… come in!" She shooed him inside. "You must be freezing dear! I'll make you a nice hot cuppa. That'll help." 

He already was half through her door, inside her kitchen, before he got a chance to speak.

"Well, Mrs Hudson… to be honest… actually I'm here… uhm… for Sherlock. Is he in?" He asked, half apologetic half restless. Mrs Hudson's face clouded immediately and John's stomach dropped, his throat constricting.

"I'm so sorry, love… but… He's not here. I haven't seen him. He left yesterday in the early morning hours and he didn't come back since. He didn't even tell me where he was going! And neither did you!" She slapped him on his chest with the back of her hand. She looked gruntled and continued in an equally displeased voice. "Well, I know the two of you and you know I love you, but you can't make an old lady worry like that!" She strutted further into her flat and John had no other choice than to follow her. 

"So… you don't know where he is?" John asked, disappointed.

"No dear, sorry." She looked emphatically at him, pitying even. John had to look away. He swallowed. 

"He… he didn't say anything?" He made one last attempt.

"No. Nothing." She shook her head slowly. "I'm so sorry, dear…"

Without saying another word, John nodded, turned and left Baker Street behind. Out again, into the rain, away. 

Passing the next lamppost he cried out and kicked the post as hard as he could. Again and again, unaware of his surroundings, crying out unintelligible syllables of pain, of frustration, of sorrow, of loss. He kicked and cried until he was drained of all energy and he sank to his knees, not sure if it really was the rain that wet his cheeks. 

After a while he stood, squared his shoulders and sniffed. Nodded, swallowed. Walked.

**send 8.15 pm  
** **Sherlock, where are you? I've been at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson is worried. John**

No answer.

He sniffed. Swallowed. Kept walking.

**send 8.27 pm  
** **Greg, he's not at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson doesn't know a thing. John**

He winced.

**send 8.28 pm  
** **Have you heard anything? At the yard maybe? John**

Text alert. Greg.

He stopped walking. Swallowed. 

**received 8.29 pm  
** **Don't you think I would have told you? GL**

Groan.

**send 8.30 pm  
** **And Molly?**

Heart beating too fast. He held his breath. Text alert.

**received 8.31 pm  
** **Didn't say anything. I'll ask her. I'll let you know. GL**

Shoulders sagged.

**send 8.32 pm  
** **Okay. Good.**

Wait. Shift. He cleared his throat. Wait

**received 8.35 pm  
** **Sorry mate. She hasn't seen or heard from him for a while. GL**

He nodded. Coughed. Walked again.

Think. 

Type. Delete. Type.

**send 8.42 pm  
** **Hey Mike, sorry that I've not been around much lately. Been busy… with Sherlock not being well and so on. I know this might come as a surprise, but I wondered if you might have heard from him? If so, let me know, okay? I hope you're okay! Send my love to your fam. Let's catch up soon, yeah? John Watson**

Walk. Walk. Walk.

Text alert. Stop walking. Check. Mike.

**received 8.48 pm  
** **John, nice surprise. I actually wondered how you are. And Sherlock of course. Haven't heard from him recently, no. Is he better? I really hope so! He had you worried, hadn't he ;-). Always good for some drama, that one! Let's get together sometime soon! Mike**

Eyes closed. Hand dropping. Clenching the phone. 

Considering. Yes? No? Running fingers through his hair. Grinding his teeth. Okay then.

**send 8.54 pm  
** **Mycroft, this is John. Do you know where Sherlock is? He's not at Baker Street, doesn't answer his phone or texts. He didn't contact the yard. Nobody knows anything. I'm worried. John Watson**

Wait. Wait. Wait. 

No answer.

**outgoing call, contact : Mycroft Holmes  
** **9.12 pm**

**_"The person you've called is temporarily not available. Please leave a message."_ **

Damnit. Shit. Fuck. What now? 

**send 9.15 pm  
** **Mycroft. Please answer your phone. Or call me, as soon as possible! John Watson.**

No reply.

Walk. What to do? Walk. Where to go? Walk.

No call.

Walk.

Diogenes! 

He knocked at the door.

"Uhm… hello… I'm John Watson! I want to speak to Mycroft Holmes. It's urgent. Is he here?"

"My apologies, but Mr Holmes is not present at the moment."

"How can I reach him? Where is he? Home?"

"I'm sorry, but Mr Holmes has given to understand that he is out of the country. He'll not be available for an indefinite period. Good evening, Doctor Watson."

  
  


Shit. Out of the country. 

Out of the country?

No. Fuck. He swallowed. Swallowed. No. 

The song… oh no… the song… _"and so I have to say before I go…"_

Oh fuck… Mycroft's voice… in the car… _"he feels the urge to take some significant and… uhm… maybe life-changing decisions…"_

Sherlock… yesterday… in the park… _"sometimes one has to make compromises… but sometimes it’s better to make clear decisions.” … "Otherwise it becomes suffocating." … "I'm glad we agree on clarity."_

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Hands shaking.

**outgoing call, contact: Sherlock  
** **9.36 pm**

**_"The person you've called is temporarily not available. Please leave a message."_ **

He exhaled. Eyes squeezed shut.

**_"Sherlock… if you hear this… please pick up your phone yeah? Just… please! I need to talk to you!_ **

**_…_ **

**_It's me, John._ **

**_…_ **

**_Okay… uhm… call me, yeah?"_ **

He sat down. 

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

**send 9.40 pm  
** **Are you okay?**

**send 9.41 pm  
** **Where are you?**

  
  


**send 9.42 pm  
** **Sherlock. Please.**

Wait.

Breath shallow.

Wait.

Text alert. Sherlock's number!

He stood. Stopped breathing. Heart racing.

  
  


**received 9.52 pm  
** **Dr Watson. It would be vastly appreciated if you would refrain from contacting this number. MH**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/bzfytpmzOg4  
> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/bzfytpmzOg4)
> 
> * * *
> 
> All death threats can be send to Sherlock Holmes, wherever the fuck he is now, no idea if it is still in London - or you can try to send an email to info@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk. Good luck!!


	11. I Won't Let You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were four texts in a row. Sherlock counted the seconds between them. He didn't pull out the phone, although his hand was clenched around it in his trouser pocket. His arm almost trembled with the effort it took him and he was relieved when after the fourth text the seconds kept going by without further interruption. Gradually, he relaxed, tension seeping out, well aware that text messages didn't vanish by ignoring them. This was a problem he had to address later. Why had he even brought his phone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> I'm so proud of you all and very grateful that you are still here reading and suffering through this with me and my idiot boys. Fear not, the end (of their and your misery) is nigh. Hold on just a bit more and you'll see the light at the end of the tunnel. And for everyone who misses Battersea-Sherlock (like me): he'll be back soon, despite his own undertakings.
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

The moment he turned away from John, he wanted to rip his heart out and throw it in the next bin, where it belonged. He cursed it's existence. How could an accumulation of cells, which consisted of carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen; some of the most tedious and common chemical elements… how could that hurt? It wasn't even injured in a medical sense…

It dawned on Sherlock that maybe… just maybe… there was justification for sentimental terms such as... a wounded heart, an aching heart… a broken heart. 

He forced himself to keep walking, not to look back. Nothing good would come from that. He was certain about it. He had thought about it thoroughly. All the time. He had made a decision. It was better this way.

He slipped into the back of the car waiting for him. The moment he closed the door, the vehicle took off and merged into the London traffic. He reclined his elbow against the smooth leather lined interior of the car door and pressed his fingers, clenched into a fist, against his mouth. He looked out of the side window without seeing anything. He could feel Mycroft watching him from the seat next to him, but he had no desire to reciprocate. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but he was in fact grateful for Mycroft's presence. For his silent company, provided without request, uncommented, unquestioned.

"And? Have you succeeded to convey your intentions?" Mycroft asked plainly without expressing any emotions.

"Yes." Sherlock said steadily.

Mycroft turned his head in satisfaction, looking straight ahead.

"I think so." Sherlock's eyes shifted, he only barely glanced at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye.

Mycroft looked abruptly over at him, scanning his face.

"Oh, Sherlock…," Mycroft sighed and lowered his chin, shaking his head slowly.

"Don't…," Sherlock warned him sharply.

"Are you sure…," Mycroft started, not caring for Sherlock's defensiveness.

"Mycroft." Sherlock resolutely cut him short. "You know me. You always have. You know how I am. I can't do things by halves. For me it's black or white. All or nothing. To endure things anywhere in between is killing me. And others. So it's one or the other. And because in this case I can't have all, I had to choose for nothing. And because you also know that I'm easily tempted, this is the best option. Hell knows I'd prefer an altogether different solution! But that would not be acceptable. It would hurt John." 

Mycroft huffed, but kept looking straight ahead and said nothing. Sherlock glared irritated at him. 

"He mustn't be further compromised. This time it's different. I agreed with him on clarity. It will all settle and he'll move on. He did before. He will again." Sherlock turned back into his former position and tried to ignore Mycroft to the best of his abilities. It wasn't easy.

The rest of the trip passed in silence until they turned onto the private driveway to Mycroft's mansion. When the driver stopped in front of the entrance, Mycroft cleared his throat and unfastened his seatbelt. 

"I have business to attend to. I'll see you at dinner and we'll discuss further proceedings." He got out and headed towards the house without waiting for Sherlock. 

_'So, that's it then for the brotherly friendliness'_ , thought Sherlock but couldn't really be bothered. He unfastened his own belt, left the car and trotted behind Mycroft into the house. He made his way to his current intermittent residence. He hated the sterility and emptiness of Mycroft's home. Deserted hallways, reverberating chambers, oppressive artwork crowding the walls. But it was the most practical place for him to stay, if only out of logistical reasons. 

When he had left Baker Street yesterday morning, he hadn't taken many of his belongings—yet. Mrs Hudson was still asleep, he didn't want to wake her by making too much noise. She would be informed in time. 

After his… well, breakdown is probably the most suitable description... Mycroft had interrogated him about the sincerity of his decision and the feasibility of the project. Obviously regarding mental and physical health. But Sherlock had found John's USB device. He saw his assumptions confirmed that John wouldn't see reason and was much too stubborn to give in to participate in the necessary and logical measurements that must be taken. Therefore he felt vindicated in his plans. At the same time as writing the email to John he had reinforced the request he had made the day he went to see Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. And then, the same night, unable to sleep, turning it all over in his head and reflecting upon all possible eventualities, he got the call from John. And he had felt sucked in again with the intensity of a maelstrom and he had realised that he had to speed up his undertakings. Time was pressing, his weaknesses threatened to get the better of him. He couldn't risk it.

So he had picked only his most necessary belongings to live through a couple of days and had contacted Mycroft again. They had agreed that the cooperation would be much easier, if Sherlock stayed at Mycroft's… or maybe, Sherlock had insisted… just a little bit. And here he was. In this impersonal room, with its perfectly comfortable bed, with its neatly made up linens, with its everyday dusted furniture, with its emptiness, with it's Johnlessness. 

Out of a childishly rebellious mood he threw himself full force on the impeccably straightened sheets only for the sake of crumpling them. He very nearly tumbled from the edge of the bed on the other side, but he caught the corner post of the extravagant four-poster bed just in time. He tried to turn it into a more or less elegant roll to drape himself across the whole surface of the bed, but he felt pathetic nonetheless. This would have been exactly one of those things, John liked to tease him about. One of those things that undermined his persona of the unapproachable detective, one of those things that no-one was allowed to see… except John. He was glad, though, that nobody had seen it. The unapproachable detective was what he needed the world to see, what he needed to be… or rather the unapproachable something. He didn’t know yet. He didn’t care. It won’t be relevant. 

He stretched his arms to his sides and let the palms of his hands smooth out the freshly inflicted creases. The sheets were even more luxurious than his own. Still, they didn't feel nearly as good. It felt empty this bed, too big, although it was as empty as any bed Sherlock had slept and will ever sleep in. He tried not to think of his own bed at Baker Street. Of his own empty bed. He tried not to understand now, that the raging fury he had felt when he had heard the squeaking bed springs and muffled moans from the upstairs bedroom when John had brought over one of his tedious girlfriends, had actually been uproaring jealousy. He tried not to understand now, that the simmering tension he had felt when he heard the same noises and knew John was alone, had actually been desolate longing. He tried not to understand that the emptiness he sensed in this bed was actually the emptiness in his heart. And he very much tried not to think about all the nights ahead he would have to spend in such an empty bed. He very much tried not to think of anything. 

As treacherous as his brain was these days, he didn’t succeed. The fingertips of his outstretched hand traced patterns on the cover, cold to the touch. Those high thread fabrics always felt so silky and smooth, soft to sensitive skin, but also sleek and impersonal. The feeling of being on a business trip, residing in a posh hotel, was indivisibly connected. Sherlock had never minded, as the time he’d spent in his bed had always been out of mere necessity anyway. There had never been anything intriguing enough for him to spend more time in bed for. His transport needed time to recharge to go on with The Work and that was it. Tedious. Cold hadn’t been an issue as he’d only gone to bed when he was dead on his feet and was sure to fall asleep the moment he touched the mattress anyway. 

He had never thought that there’d come a time he’d miss someone else’s warmth lingering in the covers in the morning. Though, ‘miss’ wasn’t quite the right term as he’d never had someone warming his bed for longer than a couple of hours in the first place. The body warmth of other persons had always been a tad off-putting for him. Most of all in his own bed. He had always tried to avoid bringing people to his own place for sex. Of course he’d had sex. Sometimes including a bed, sometimes not. At good times to satisfy basic human desires, at bad times to ensure the supply to sate a different kind of craving. He had tried to delete that part of his history, but apparently he had done a poor job. The memories had come back full force after waking in that much too familiar place a couple of days ago and hadn’t left him since. Luckily they weren’t his only experiences. The more enjoyable ones, mainly from his young adult years, had stayed with him as well. They had outweighed the vileness and disgust he had gone through. They hadn’t erased it, but counterbalanced. He knew both ends of what sex could be like. Sex didn’t alarm him. He wasn’t intrigued or impressed by it. He was aware, he could estimate, he could judge and rationally decide if, when and what he needed. It wasn’t always bad. At uni he’d even had a permanent bed companion. It had held its advantages not to have to go through the initial rituals of ‘getting to know each other’ every single time. Also to have someone who knew the physical and sexual boundaries: what is welcome, what is wanted, the dos and don’ts. They’d had a good time, enjoyed each other's company during the day, enjoyed the sex at night and sometimes not at night. They’d been friends, one of the few Sherlock had made in his life. Thinking back, it might be called more than friends. Perhaps even a relationship, although it had never held any deep emotional attachment. They had liked each other, they were most definitely physically attracted to each other, but Sherlock had never missed Victor’s warmth in the morning when he had snuck out of the room again in the middle of the night. 

Now though his fingertips seemed to search for a trace of warmth to banish the cold, not only from the bed. The palm and fingers of his left hand now rested calmly on the surface. What would it feel like to reach out and feel warmth where his own body couldn’t reach? To be able to feel the presence of someone else without seeing, without touching. What would it be like if the fingertips accidentally bumped against warm skin, able and allowed to stay there, to feel, to touch, to explore? Would his always cold hands be welcome or would he be sleepily grumpily scolded? He wouldn’t mind, he really wouldn't. That would be a very John thing to do. Sherlock smiled a small secret smile, for no-one to witness. What would it be he’d touch? A back? A chest? He had often tried to imagine John’s sleeping position. He probably was a side-sleeper, too vulnerable on his back, too immobile hence defenceless on his belly. His shoulder would bother him after a while though. He’d mostly sleep on his right side then, which meant he’d face Sherlock. Eyes closed Sherlock rolled onto his left side. He’d be able to watch John in his sleep until he began stirring in the morning. He’d be able to trace his features with a fingertip to wake him. He’d be able to examine the scar, just by look, because the sheet would slide from John’s shoulder in his sleep. Most likely he’d want his arm free from covers for action if needed. There’d be a whole territory for him to discover and explore and it would be all his. 

He had never craved to watch someone wake. But the image of John slowly blinking his eyes open, messed up hair, pillow creases on his cheek, filled him with a kind of warmth he had only ever experienced in his imagination. His heart spilled over with tiny bubbles of joy and happiness, dancing and spinning through his body, getting caught between his ribs making them tingle; in his stomach making it twist; in his feet making them fidgety. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back to lean over and kiss him. John would probably complain about morning breath, but Sherlock wouldn’t mind. 

What would it feel like to kiss John Watson. Sherlock had never been one for kissing. Too sentimental. With Victor it had been pleasurable enough. Mostly in the heat of the moment. But never just for the sake of kissing. But John… he wouldn't mind kissing him. On the contrary, kissing John would be everything. He longed to know what his lips felt like. If they would feel like Sherlock imagined them to feel… warm, soft yet firm, a bit scratchy because they were chapped sometimes and also because they were thinner than Sherlock's. He would probably feel stubble under his lips. Which would be delightful. He could scratch his teeth over it. Hear the rasping sound it would make. Dip his tongue against it to feel the prickle. Sherlock shivered. Would John like that? What would he taste like? What was the taste of safety and belonging? Of destiny? Of home? Sherlock imagined John to taste the way their Baker Street flat smelled like. Sunny, cosy, sometimes of tea, sometimes of Indian take away. Sometimes like danger. Sometimes like comfort. Kissing John would be a whole universe of sensations. It would be enough, he wouldn’t need anything more. 

Although, if John would be amenable Sherlock wouldn’t say no. Sherlock would want everything John would be willing to give. He would be just as curious to explore… in which way it would feel different to touch John on a lazy morning in bed than an accidental brush of hands or an awkward hug at a wedding. Was it possible to feel the line between bronzed and pale skin on his neck? Would he be able to detect traces of a healed limp in the lines of thighs and calves? Would there be palpable remnants of a non-existing tremor if he ran his fingers over the palm of John's hand? Was it possible to feel bravery and stubbornness and loyalty in the curve of a bicep? Sherlock tried to swallow the lump in his throat away. He wanted to know every little detail about John. If he’d only be allowed to...

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, rolled off of the bed and went over to stand in front of the big window. He had to clear his mind of all this toxic, because distracting because painful because fruitless thoughts. He watched the deserted back yard. Flowers blooming, leaves beginning to sprout, an early butterfly, a honeybee crawling tired and slowed down by the chilly air across the window sill. All wasted to a garden as empty and solitary as Sherlock's bed, as Sherlock's life. As Sherlock himself.

The time until dinner was tedious. There was nothing to distract him. He had forgotten to take his violin and Mycroft was—of course—not equipped for experiments. Also, Sherlock couldn't contact the yard—if this plan was supposed to work, he couldn't show his face anywhere where people knew him and consulting with the yard in disguise wasn't really an option. But then, Lestrade hadn't asked for help for some time now anyway. He wondered if London's criminal class was getting lazy or if Gavin was otherwise occupied, informed about his relapse, had already given up on Sherlock... Probably, he could start to call Greg by his real name now. Of course he knew his real name. He just enjoyed John's reaction so very much that he couldn’t make himself stop—to Greg’s immense annoyance. He craved John’s irritation and insults that actually were an expression of their friendship. He was John's madman. John was his idiot. And that was the highest praise there was. 

However, now there was no longer the need to hold on to this farce. There was no-one else whose reaction he had any interest in. Greg would be relieved though to be finally called by his real name. Although, it didn't matter because he'd never know because it would never be necessary again to call him anything. 

It would probably be better not to engage in any kind of social interaction at all. His face was too well known and metropolitan London was just as bad regarding gossip and tattle as every little countryside village. Someone would spot him and would tell someone who knew someone who would ... maybe tell John. No. Wouldn't take that risk. He couldn't risk to be seen, he couldn't risk to leave the house. Even if this meant no more cases, no more cases ever again. Even if this meant not to be able to go to Battersea, although he'd need that now more than ever. But then, he'd also not be able to indulge in any other way to clear his mind, to distract his thoughts. He'd just have to deal with it. With everything. Alone.

Nonetheless, he checked his phone once or twice. Couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed that it stayed quiet. 

Finally, time for dinner had come and he walked over to Mycroft's dining room. His brother wasn't present yet so he sat alone at the table and tried to get used to it. Sitting alone. Somewhere, which was not home. If he tried not to care, it would be fine, he decided. He let his gaze roam across the elegantly laid table. Unbidden, the contrast to a couch table overflowing with take-away containers imposed on his mind. The sudden sickness and twisting stomach hit him by surprise. He clenched his jaw, averted his eyes to force the unwanted thoughts away. This was the moment Mycroft chose to join him. Quickly, Sherlock tried to regain composure and lifted himself slightly from the chair in a welcoming gesture. Not that he exactly felt like it, most of all the welcoming part, but he knew it would please his brother who then therefore would probably be much more apt to cooperate. 

"Brother…" Mycroft greeted him in his usual snobbish voice. 

"Yes, that would be me." Sherlock couldn't contain himself which immediately raised a disapproving look from the man on the other side of the table.

After they both settled on their chairs, the food was served and Mycroft's minions left. For a few moments they ate quietly, although Sherlock rather rearranged his food on his plate due to his still unsettled stomach.

"Well…" Mycroft started indifferently. "How have you been?" 

"You have seen me only mere hours ago. And the only thing I've done is trying to merge in with the furniture in your guest room!" Sherlock snarled. "What's the point of that question?" 

Mycroft didn't respond, just looked at him quietly, chewing away on his vegetables. 

"Fine! I'm fine!" Sherlock hissed irritated. "Why wouldn't I be fine?" He glared at his brother, who didn't bat an eyelid at Sherlock's anger. Mycroft held his gaze, kept on eating, absolutely unaffected, which only spiked Sherlock's irritation.

"No reason." Mycroft said in the end. 

"Good." Sherlock spat and stabbed the food on his plate to death for lack of other volunteers.

The eloquent silence that followed spoke volumes. But both brothers feigned indifference and refused to acknowledge the unspoken communication. Just before the seesaw of their immature game of power threatened to tip over, Mycroft gave in and spoke again.

"So, brother mine, pray tell… how do you intend to proceed from here on?" Mycroft asked sweetly while pushing his now empty plate away and dabbing the corners of his mouth with a brilliantly white napkin.

"Isn't that your job here? What are you here for otherwise?" Sherlock bit back.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed and leaned back in his chair, "I agreed to help you translate your plan into action, but as it says in the description—this time it's _your_ plan."

"Oh, don't play innocent, Mycroft." Sherlock growled and looked at his brother with undisguised scorn. "Don't pretend this doesn't suit your needs." 

"I will not deny it, my superiors rather waited for such an opportunity for quite a while, which you are aware of, of course."

Sherlock coughed out a harsh laugh.

"Your superiors? Mycroft… how stupid do you think I am?" He spat in annoyance.

"Very." Was Mycroft's cold and unwaveringly serious answer. The brothers held their gazes for a tense moment, before Sherlock huffed and looked away.

"Yeah… I'm aware of that." he said, bitterly.

"However," Mycroft continued unperturbed, "that notwithstanding, we welcome your partaking. It will undoubtedly entail a great asset, although it wouldn't have been necessarily required."

"Then _you_ tell _me_ how this is going to go!" Sherlock snarled, irritated. "What is taking you so long?"

"There are... things... to arrange, business to attend to, timetables to schedule…" Mycroft rattled resignedly. 

"Oh… cut the crap, Mycroft!" Sherlock was getting angry. "I know for a fact, that you can start a war by flipping a switch and make the Queen disappear in a blink!" He raised his voice. "What's keeping you now?" 

"Sherlock," Mycroft tried again sternly. "Setting up an entirely new and, by request if I might remind you, untraceable identity takes time."

"I don't have time!" Sherlock shouted, jumped up and slammed the knuckles of his fists on the tabletop. 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and bored his gaze, sharp as knives, through Sherlock's core.

"Why ever not?" He said frostily, emphasising each word, living up to the reputation of the iceman that preceded him.

Sherlock snarled at him, but couldn't come up with a satisfying retort. He whirled around and left the dining room without another word. He couldn't help but feel defeated. There was nothing left for him but wait. He was at his brother's mercy. 

The night was endless agony, ink-black and dreadful. Full of unbidden thoughts. Filled with futile memories. He didn't even succeed in hiding in his mind palace. All he wanted was to be somewhere else. Someone else. Anyone. 

When the morning came creeping in, pale and dreary, forcing it's vile fingers of smudgy grey light through the crack between the curtains, Sherlock hadn't slept at all. He forced himself to get up, put on his dressing gown and shuffle downstairs into the kitchen. He was lucky that nobody was around, although he was certain that the house was run as incessantly as an anthill. The coffee in the coffeemaker, ready and waiting, was proof enough as Sherlock was convinced Mycroft hadn't fixed his own coffee or tea since adulthood. 

He stood in front of the glass door leading from the kitchen to the garden terrace and watched the same green grass as the day before, when the first text arrived. He felt his stomach drop at the all too well known text alert. John had never been aware that he had a personalised one. He had always been so furious about the ridiculous text alert of the woman woman, without knowing he had one himself. But then, how should he have known. It's not as if they were texting when they were together in the same room. Why would they. So John wouldn't have been able to notice. And Sherlock would certainly not tell him. 

Which now meant, he didn't have to look at his phone to know who was texting. He smiled sadly. John had been patient. It was indeed the next day. He had done what Sherlock had asked. Reliable, trustworthy John. Even now. Which was in stark contrast to his own current situation, condemned to passivity, avoiding everything that was left of him. He felt something being crushed inside him—it might have been his backbone. It would have hurt, if he would still care. Then again, Sherlock had not expected to still be around to receive any reaction in the first place. Bloody Mycroft. 

There were four texts in a row. Sherlock counted the seconds between them. He didn't pull out the phone, although his hand was clenched around it in his trouser pocket. His arm almost trembled with the effort it took him and he was relieved when after the fourth text the seconds kept going by without further interruption. Gradually, he relaxed, tension seeping out, well aware that text messages didn't vanish by ignoring them. This was a problem he had to address later. Why had he even brought his phone? 

He didn't wait. No, he didn't. He didn't wonder either, if this was it. Four texts. Actually more than enough if he was honest. Especially because he wouldn't read them anyway. The morning merged into noon and he still didn't wonder. He also wasn't disappointed or sad that John had given up after four. 

Mycroft was apparently out already, because Sherlock didn't see him come or go. Nor did he see anyone else. He just waited. As the good little brother he was not. As the coward he definitely was. As the person he wouldn't be for much longer. 

Then there was a text again. Sherlock's heart didn't jump in silly relief, absolutely unreasonable because relief from what would that be? And for whom? After that, silence again. Waiting again. Counting again. Just because there was nothing else to do he kept counting, adding to each second the matching chemical element sorted by astronomical number on repeat. Because he knew this by heart he also marked the prime numbers in his mind. When this was getting boring, he additionally pinpointed each element's anatomical weight in binaries. 

After 8159 seconds, after 69 periodic tables plus chlorine, after 1023 prime numbers, he hadn't given up hope because he didn't hope because he didn't care because that was the plan. 

After 8160 seconds his heart didn't skip a beat with an incoming text because... he didn't care. Only 2640 seconds and 382 prime numbers later the next text message. He still didn't read them because he didn't care. Because that was the plan. 

However, his agony accelerated exponentially with each new incoming text. The rhythm of his heartbeat speeding up a notch. His fidgeting and frantic pacing reaching heretofore unknown levels. 1980 seconds… 1200 seconds… he had given up on the primes at this point. He couldn't concentrate and who cared about them anyway... 480 seconds… 420 seconds…

When Mycroft arrived back home, he found Sherlock darting from kitchen to living room to dining room and back. A junkie in need of a fix. If Mycroft wouldn't know better, he'd pack Sherlock in the boot of his car and take him to the next rehab. But on the whole planet earth, there didn't exist a rehab to cure him from this addiction. 

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice woke Sherlock from his trance. Immediately, Sherlock spun on his heels. The look on his face switched from pained to furious in a flash.

"Tell me again… why aren't we out of the country yet?" He hissed without further ado.

"What got into you?" Mycroft asked, trying to figure out what was going on. 

"Texts." Sherlock kept hissing. 

"Hmmm…" Mycroft hummed, balancing his always present umbrella on it's tip. "How many?" He asked cautiously. 

"Eleven." Sherlock didn't even know why he had answered. It wasn't Mycroft's business. Only, in a way it was. 

"Give me your phone." Mycroft said matter-of-fact, holding out his hand.

"No!" Sherlock yelled. Petulantly turning away from Mycroft, as if the older one were about to pick the phone from him in an infantile squabble. Mycroft sighed.

"Well then. Have it your way." He said. "I expect you to attend dinner at 8pm, get a grip on yourself until then." He turned and left Sherlock to himself again.

His phone stayed quiet, Sherlock calmed down, trying to come to terms with this fact. The quietness was heavy, weighed down all other thoughts, pushed him into his mind palace. He sorted, stored away, kept safe, threw away, got it back, saved it still. When it was time for dinner, Sherlock joined his brother with much more composure. Mycroft acknowledged it with a minuscule nod and dinner was served. Mycroft asked if Sherlock wanted to know about the progress of the proceedings, but Sherlock didn't want progress, he wanted results. He told his brother that, as long as there was no date to leave, he didn't want to know anything. He wanted a clean cut, not some kind of merging one life into the other. How could he be certain that the new him wouldn't pull along the old him if they were holding hands in the meantime. 

"How long will it take?" Sherlock asked, calm and collected. 

"I'm afraid my people will need another week, maybe more. Even if you don't want to be informed, the briefing about the mission shortly before your leave is obligatory." 

Sherlock nodded silently. He had expected that much. But one more week? 

"Will you know?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"If you want me to." Mycroft answered calmly, cautiously. 

After a short moment Sherlock nodded again. Only once. He knew Mycroft would understand.

"Will you keep him… uhm… updated?" Sherlock glanced up, only briefly, however long enough to see the compassionate look on his brother's face, and regretted it immediately.

"By your request, I will reassure Dr Watson of your wellbeing. Although I doubt that he will settle for the sparse information he will get. I'm afraid that he will unleash his misdirected fury upon me." Mycroft confirmed.

"Everything as it was, then." Sherlock huffed. 

"Almost." Mycroft said, his voice carrying a tinge of sadness. Sherlock looked up at that, studying his brother's face, who didn't look away, held his gaze, let Sherlock see. Sherlock swallowed.

This was the moment Sherlock's phone chose to announce a new incoming text by playing John's violin theme. Sherlock shut his eyes in defeat. He had worked so hard. He had closed all doors. He had stored everything away. Safely. Why would there have to be a twelfth text message. He would have to rearrange. He would have to reevaluate. After 5700 seconds of silence. 

After he calmed his breath, he looked at Mycroft and tried to keep his expression indifferent. They regarded each other quietly for a moment and then continued their meal without talking. They finished dinner without talking. They had coffee without talking. Everything was said. All there was left to do was wait. Sherlock pushed back his chair to stand up when his phone once again came to life. No violin though. Just ordinary beeping. Sherlock furrowed his brow. Not John. Why not John? Why was that important anyway? He fished his phone out of his pocket and unlocked the screen hesitantly.

**received 8.47pm  
** **I don't know what crap you're up to now, but I swear to God, Sherlock, if you do this to John again, I'll come and find you and beat some sense into that pretty little head of yours and if needed I'll drag you home by your ridiculous curls. GODDAMMIT, Sherlock!! Not again!!!! GL**

Sherlock stared. And stared. And then typed slowly, almost John-like.

**send 8.49pm  
** **This time I won't be dead.**

Sherlock inhaled sharply, then held his breath. Then pressed the button. 

Because he didn't care.

**_contact blocked: Greg Lestrade_ **

"Who?" asked Mycroft, eyeing him suspiciously.

"No-one. Not important. Problem solved." Sherlock answered evasively. 

When he put his phone back, suddenly Mycroft's phone took over the stream of messages. Mycroft read it, raised his eyebrows, and put the phone back where it came from without further reaction. Sherlock felt an unease creep up his back, making the skin of his nape tingle, spreading all the way over his scalp, making it tense and announcing a massive headache. 

"Who?" he returned the question, his stomach in knots. But he didn't care.

"No-one. Not important. Work." Mycroft answered, mimicking Sherlock's earlier response. Making clear that he knew. Both men watching each other, scanning, evaluating. Sherlock could see right through him, Mycroft had never been good at lying to Sherlock. Sherlock swallowed. Paled. 

John was stubborn. As usual. Sherlock should have expected it. But he hadn't. John had left. Why would he put effort in staying in contact now? They had talked. They had agreed. Sherlock had told him. But John didn't give up. Sherlock wasn't prepared. He tried not to care. He tried to stick to the plan. Bloody Mycroft! Why was Sherlock forced to still be here? To still be him? 

Mycroft's phone rang. Mycroft cut the call without looking, without reacting, without moving.

The brothers stood facing each other. Unspoken conversation bouncing back and forth, a trial of strength, a showdown. Neither of them wanting to give in, neither of them desiring to win the game. Just peace, Sherlock thought. That's all he wanted. Peace.

Mycroft's phone. Text message. He didn't look. Sherlock knew. 

"Follow me." Mycroft said and turned. 

Sherlock wanted to refuse, but his body and mind didn't obey.

Mycroft led him to his study, directed Sherlock to one of the plush chairs in front of the windows and planted a tumblr of something in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock had no idea what it was. Because he didn't care. That was the plan. It burned down his throat. That's all he needed to know. Unfortunately, it didn't reach his heart. 

He took sip after sip. Until Mycroft refilled the empty glass. 

When his own phone rang, Sherlock stared into his glass. Amber. Whisky then. The phone rang. Violin. Lovely piece. Sad piece. John's piece. Not Sherlock's usual choice. But John loved it.

"Tschaikowsky?" Mycroft frowned at him? The implied _'You? Tschaikowsky? Really?'_ didn't need to be said. 

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the warm amber liquor to the pale grayish-green eyes of his brother. Complimentary, Sherlock thought. Warm oblivion. Cold confrontation. 

The violin died. Voicemail announced. Sherlock grit his teeth. 

Greyish-green eyes resting on him. Unsettling. Grounding. Waiting.

Text message.

He closed his eyes.

Breathing.

He didn't care.

Text message.

60 seconds.

He didn't care.

Text message.

60 seconds.

He opened his eyes, looked back. His eyes able to say, what his lips couldn't. His eyes able to plead. His eyes able to beg. His lips couldn't. Because he didn't care. That was the plan. 

Mycroft could see right through him, Sherlock had never been good at lying to Mycroft.

Mycroft understood.

_‘Myc, make this stop.’_

Mycroft held out his hand. As he did before.

Sherlock reached into his pocket. Handed the phone over.

And left.

  
  
  


The next days went by in a haze. There were nights and days coming and going. Like a merry-go-round Sherlock wandered from bedroom to kitchen to library to dining room to library to dining room to library to bedroom. There were meals with Mycroft, meals without Mycroft. There was the bed, chairs, sofa, bed. He wasn't much aware of anything. He spent most of the time making use of Mycroft's outstanding book collection. He wasn't picky, because there was no trivia to find in Mycroft's collection anyway. Except for the section labeled politics, he completely avoided those. Otherwise, he randomly picked a book from the shelves and settled in the armchair by the window. He read about how to make your house bomb-proof, about the composition of the balm preserving the egyptian mummies, about different species of butterflies, Shakespeare’s Henry V and an atlas of the northern hemisphere’s star constellations. Usually, he read until it was time for the next meal. Often, he didn't know which meal it was until the moment he entered the dining room. 

Once, in a fit of idiocy, he tried to check his email account. Only to discover that Mycroft had taken the hint with the phone very seriously and had also deleted all ways to contact him online. Even his blog was deactivated. All his posts still online, but not accessible, main page message: this blog is abandoned for an indefinite period. He took note of it unaffectedly. He had expected something similar anyway.

Occasionally, he kept the little lonely bee in the backyard company. He pretended it was the same bee each time, just for the feeling of familiarity. He fed her sugared water. He couldn't let her die, even though she had been foolish enough to leave the hive too early… a bee out of her time. Who was he to judge her intentions. He willed the flowers to grow faster, bloom better. For the bee's sake… and for his own. More blossoms meant more time gone by meant almost… almost… 

He never left the property.

He never answered the phone. Or the doorbell. He tried to pretend to be gone already. Did his best not to even be a shadow of himself. He couldn't take any risk. To be seen. And to see. 

After two days Mycroft brought a new mobile. Some sort of fancy British Government thing. Sherlock was reminded of John's beloved secret service movies—Bond… and his quartermaster. Who always equipped the agents with the most ridiculous devices. John liked the scenes with said quartermaster the most. He didn't say, but Sherlock had deduced it fairly quickly. Sherlock had always suspected that the quartermaster fancied the Bond guy… 'had a crush', John would say. However, it was never confirmed on screen and John didn't acknowledge it either. Bond guy was probably too manly in John's eyes… too 'not gay'... to take such a construct into consideration. Sherlock on the contrary pitied the quartermaster, not that he would care though. It was a fictional character after all.

Sherlock took the new mobile without comment. When he checked his address book there was only one contact listed—Mycroft. Of course. Sherlock weighed the phone in his hand for a while, eyed it as if it were a new nemesis, before he buried it deep in the chest of drawers underneath bed linens and towels. 

It took five more days until Mycroft one evening announced a time and date for the briefing. Finally. Only two more days. Actually even only one and a half, if one took into consideration that the briefing would take place in the early afternoon. Which meant half a day less to wait. Which meant his departure was near. Which meant release from this mental and physical prison he lived in. Which meant Sherlock felt… relieved. Yes, that was what he felt. Probably. 

This probably-relief had the unfortunate side effect of being an emotion. Allowing this one in, it opened the floodgates for emotions in general. He had to fight hard not to drown in them and to keep them at bay behind a solid dam of indifference. In a not so wise decision, Mycroft had chosen an evening out of all options as the time of the day to drop the news. Which entailed that Sherlock spent the entire night mulling on it. Without much distraction. Which didn’t help a single bit with the flood dam. When he got too restless in his room, he went outside into the backyard. He hadn’t much hope to meet the little bee, she would probably be asleep at this time of the night. Nonetheless, out in the garden he felt a curious feeling of calm settle in his bones. The same atoms, which formed the oxygen and carbon dioxide he was now breathing, feeling on his skin, ruffling his hair and carrying the scent of blossoms and fresh mowed grass… the same ones would be pushed and pulled across the whole surface of planet earth. With a bit of luck and coincidence he would breath exactly these atoms again, wherever he was going. He didn’t want to know in advance. He didn’t want to leave clues. But the day after tomorrow he would know. Two days…

Sherlock settled on the lawn, leaned against a tree and closed the eyes to send some air into his lungs and then out again into the world for the wind to drag it away. After several minutes he opened his eyes again and looked up at the sky. Some ragged dark clouds shifting over the sparkled surface, just fraily holding back the moon in it’s attempt to penetrate the gloom of the night. He realised that he sporadically recognised constellations of some stars. He winced at himself, but couldn’t stop staring. The longer he watched them, the more he found. He wondered how the night sky would look like at the new place. Would he even recognise any star there? Would he see the same sky as people in Britain? Or France that is, of course. And actually also any other country in Europe. 

He stared up until his eyes began to water… from the chilly night air. He shivered a bit, went inside to pick up his coat and scarf and settled back in his former spot, wrapped both, coat and scarf, tightly around himself and leaned his head back. He retreated into his mind palace, entered the planning office of the mission and tried to review all the available facts. Because he didn’t want to know, but… he wanted to know. He couldn’t prepare himself like this. Although, he didn’t even know what to prepare for. Prepare… his eyes popped open and he scratched the back of his head on the cracked bark of the tree when he hastily sat up. He looked around and was surprised to see the first wisp of dusty pink along the horizon. The star constellations were hardly visible anymore and he felt a strange kind of melancholie spread through his chest at that realisation. His legs and back felt stiff, his bum was numb, cold and damp from the morning dew slowly creeping in. He stood up, straightened and stretched his limbs and back and cracked his neck. 

Preparations… That was what had pulled him out of his thoughts. He had realised that he hadn’t much time and opportunity left to fetch the last remaining belongings he wanted to take with him from Baker Street. And if he wanted to avoid running into anyone, he only had nighttimes to make use of. Which meant his only opportunity was the following night… or now. He weighed it in his mind and decided that he couldn’t take the risk to waste his only chance because he would be hampered or worse...interrupted. Better to make his first attempt now and, if needed, try again during the following night. Sure, he could also send some of Mycroft’s minions, but he didn’t trust them to pick the right things and furthermore… a bunch of men absolutely discreetly clad in all black driving up in an absolutely discreet black sedan might attract some attention and give some clues about his whereabouts. No, he had to go himself. And he had to be careful. 

Without giving it a second thought, Sherlock headed towards the heavy gates protecting Mycroft's property like a bulwark. Luckily he knew the code to open them. Not so much knew it, but deduced it. 06011977. Even Mycroft had his weak spots. Disgusting. Probably, he would still get notice of Sherlock's little trip, but there'd be nothing for him to do about it. And after all, it had been Sherlock's own decision to avoid the outside world. Now it was his decision to take the risk. Who was Mycroft to stop him. 

Stubborn, as only brotherly rivalry could make him, Sherlock stomped his way through the streets. He took the underground, which he abhorred, but he was concerned that the cabby… any cabby actually would recognise him and try to make headlines out of their trip once Sherlock Holmes' again-disappearance got public. Better to avoid that. John wouldn't like it. So he did his utmost best to pick only the empty carriages of the trains, therefore he chose uncommon lines and connections, and if it was unavoidable to encounter people, he tried to hide behind newspapers as good as possible.

This kept his mind busy enough that he didn't remember how he got there, when he stood in front of the black shiny door showing off the beloved numbers of 221. He looked left and right to make sure nobody would witness, only to be able to stand there a bit longer. His feet felt cemented to the pavement. As if the path he walked on locked around his feet. He also looked up as if to see a silhouette hiding behind the curtains on the first floor flat. Of course, the only sight that greeted him was the dark empty eyes that were the windows which led into the empty soul of what had once been home to him. Looking back at the entrance door, he reached out a hand. When his fingertips touched the door he startled. It didn’t feel like warm bronze skin over knuckles he had secretly stroked in the park. It didn’t feel like warm white wool knitted into a jumper to be worn on cold stakeouts. It didn’t feel like tea and newspapers and soft socked feet on kitchen floor. It just felt like shiny sleek cold blackness. 

Disappointed, yet relieved, he reached into his coat pocket and fetched his keys. As silently as possible he turned it in the lock, pulled the door a little before opening it to avoid the slightest possible creak. Tiptoeing, and feeling immensely ridiculous while doing so, he made his way up the stairs to the flat he had lived in, expertly avoiding the squeaking steps to not wake Mrs Hudson. 

When he opened the door leading into the living room, an undue amount of dust tickled the back of his throat and he had to fight a cough fit. Obviously, Mrs Hudson hadn’t set a foot in the abandoned flat since he had left. Although, it had only been a little more than a week. Had it always been like this? Had he just not noticed while living here? The krass contrast to the sterile cleanliness of his current living space was blatantly obvious. Apparently, his body had adjusted just fine to the new dust-free surroundings and had un-justed cold turkey from his former lifestyle. He wished for his mind to accomplish the same but it seemed like mind and heart didn’t care so much about dust. Or maybe rather too much, because... dust was eloquent. It told too much about time that had passed and people who had left. 

Sentiment. He couldn't afford that. Not here. Not now. All he had come for was to pick up some essential items. And he had to be quick. Efficient. Efficiency had no room for sentiment. So he cleared his throat silently to fight off the dust. Walking through the flat, he definitely didn’t let his gaze stroke over the surfaces of the evidence of a life lived by a different man. Because he didn’t care. He didn’t care when he rushed through the living room to hurry to the bedroom as quickly as possible. He didn’t care when he threw purposefully too tight shirts in purposefully favourite colours of John's into a leather travel bag. He didn’t care when he picked up his journal with the most important notes on experiments including the study of abilities of one John Watson, army doctor. He didn’t care when he accidentally also picked up the shower gel that wasn’t his own from the bathroom. He didn’t care when he hesitated a moment in front of the kitchen cupboard which held the mugs, but then only opened the door next to it to pick up one of his experimenting kits. He also didn’t care when he searched for the power bank a furious John once had purchased but couldn’t find it and decided that he wouldn’t need it anyway. He didn’t care when he walked upstairs to check the upstairs bedroom for anything he might need… just to be sure… but there was nothing in it he wanted to take with him. Not anymore. He didn’t care when he put his violin and bow in their case and also gathered his sheets and compositions, all of them but one waltz he didn’t exactly like very much. He didn’t care when he reached for Billy the skull without even knowing why he even would be essential, but must be packed anyway. 

And he didn’t freeze when he wanted to un-stab the mantle to take the knife with him.

It hadn’t been there when he had left. He was absolutely sure about it. There, on the mantle. Stabbed as all the things he couldn’t find an answer for. Mrs Hudson kept telling him that he wouldn’t need a new mantle if he was any good as a detective. Maybe he wasn’t after all. Because there it was and he didn’t know how or why or what to do about it.

An envelope. Brown-ish big-ish envelope. No address, no sender. Stabbed to the mantle… his mantle. How did it get here? Who brought it here? Why was it stabbed to the mantle? Sherlock was painfully aware that there weren’t that many possibilities. Not many people knew about this habit of his. If it wasn’t a coincidence… which it wasn’t… 

With a trembling hand and the unshakable suspicion that he shouldn’t, he reached for the knife. It needed more force to pull it out than he had expected and when he did, the envelope tumbled to the floor with a surprising clatter. 

He looked down at it lying on the floor, looming over it, towering it, trying to intimidate it in defiance of the feeling coiling through his veins, boiling his blood, that he himself was the one being threatened. The target. The victim. The dread built up a pressure inside him that almost bubbled over, tearing other feelings with it which were burning in his heart, laying them bare out in the open. He couldn’t let himself be defeated. He couldn’t get weak. Because… He. Didn’t. Care. 

Bending his shaking legs, he crouched down. In slow-motion he picked the envelope up as if afraid to burn his fingers the moment he touched it. Something solid shifted inside, probably the item causing the clatter. He wondered and weighed if he should open it, should take it with him, throw it away. It wasn’t his after all. And… he didn’t care, did he?

Before he could stop himself he slid his finger under the lid solidly sealing the envelope and tore it open. He reached inside. Took hold of the item and pulled it out, holding his breath. Sleek. Cold. Shiny.

Silver.

A disc.

An inscription.

**_Miss you! :-(_ **

Sherlock hissed, the disc tumbled to the floor again. He had burned his fingers after all, feelings boiling over, spilling, impossible to keep at bay. He had tried so hard. He had tried so hard not to care. A dry sob escaped his throat.

  
  
  


When he sneaked back through the gates of Mycroft’s property, the sun was up. It was irritating him with it’s brightness. It’s warmth mocking the chill unfolding in his bones. With each step his baggage grew heavier, his feet more difficult to lift. In the end he still made it back to his room, unseen. 

He felt numb. He felt his shell crumbling at the edges. Crushed by a force he couldn't yet grasp. 

He dumped his bag in a corner, carefully placing the violin case on top of it. He then closed the curtains. He didn't want to be watched, not even by the sun, or the bee, or anything or anyone else who wasn't himself. Actually he didn't even want to be here himself, but it couldn't be helped. He couldn't hide from himself. As much as he would like to.

He settled on the bed, cross legged, laptop balancing on his knees and reached for the pocket of his coat lying next to him holding the envelope. Of course he had taken it. He was extremely disappointed in himself, but the decision had been made the moment he had discovered the envelope. He had tried so hard. And he had failed.

Without looking at it he pulled out the disc, put it into the reader and swallowed. When the new window of the video player opened, he was greeted with a close up of John Watson's face, nose ridiculously distorted, eyes flickering between anywhere below and above the lense of the camera, brow furrowed. Sherlock's finger hammered on the pause button. Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, tried to even out his breathing. He had known that something of this kind would happen. Why did it still affect him this much? He knew why… because he had tried… hard. And failed. He could stop watching though. Right now. Although, he couldn't. All his powers of restraint were spent. He was drained. And now the floodgates were opened, every sentiment he had tried to hold back was flowing over, drowning him. Suffocating him.

Without taking any breath, his lungs void of air, vacuum, he pressed play and watched John Watson settle onto a sofa. A sofa Sherlock didn't recognise. John looked… ragged. Deep dark circles underneath his eyes indicating sleepless nights. Posture stiff not solely from nerves but also from sore muscles hinting on an uncomfortable sleeping surface. No bed then, thus no hotel room and more importantly not his own flat with his own bed… Sherlock had to close his eyes for a short moment… draw a shivering breath… not in bed with someone else either. So probably a lilo. Or the sofa he was currently sitting on. Unknown sofa. Not good. Sherlock swallowed. But then, John's shirt. Crumpled, collar only poorly tugged in shape, not ironed. No iron available. So, probably not in a woman's place then… clichés, but true often enough. Good. Another breath, a bit easier. Also not in a place of a man concerned enough about his appearance to own an iron… or use it. Also good. Sherlock had no idea why it mattered. Only, he had but didn't want to think about it. So, a friend's place probably, sleeping on the sofa. A makeshift arrangement. Good. Good! It didn't matter anymore. But… good! Sherlock exhaled. 

The John on screen shifted a bit awkwardly and looked shy and warily into the camera and then away again. Down onto his clenching hands. He cleared his throat, fidgeted where he sat, cleared his throat again. Then spoke and Sherlock’s stomach did a flip.

 _“Hi… uhm… Sherlock…”_ John winced, eyes flickering up to the screen and back down once more. _“I… I don’t even know if you’ll get this and… and where you are and…”_ More clearing of his throat. _“Well, I don’t know how else to reach you and… and I just…"_ He pulled one shoulder up in a halfhearted shrug, still not looking at the camera. _“I… needed to talk to you. I…”_ Eyes slowly lifting to the lens. _“I miss you.”_ John swallowed. Sherlock swallowed. John kept looking at the screen, his eyes seemed to be boring into Sherlock’s, although Sherlock knew this was impossible. It was just a screen, goddammit. When the on-screen-John spoke again he seemed a bit more relaxed. _“You know… there was this video once and… and I watched it while you had been… yeah, you had been away… uhm…”_ He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. _“... like… like now, yeah?”_ John looked at the screen, eyebrows slightly lifted as if searching for confirmation. Sherlock groaned and let his head drop forwards, a hand rubbing over his face. He didn’t dare look any more, but John, unaware of Sherlock on the other side of the screen of course, kept on talking. _“And back then, it… it sort of kept me sane?”_ A sad little chuckle. _“Well… of what was left of my sanity…”_ A huff of breath. A pause. Nothing. Sherlock looked up again. There was John, staring at him, motionless. Sherlock thought the screen might be frozen, until John slowly started talking again. _“Anyways… I thought… maybe… it might help again, yeah? Talking to you. Because I couldn’t. Then. Because…”_ He lowered his gaze. _“... you were… dead. Yeah?”_ Another pause, John seemed to collect himself. _“And… I could never tell you… there was stuff I wanted to say but didn't say it … and… now I actually could but... I can't. Not like this. Not with you not being here and maybe not even hearing this or… or...”_ He squeezed his eyes shut, pain contorting his features for a tiny moment. He inhaled deeply. _"… or hearing this and not caring about it."_ Sherlock winced, his heart clenching, his head swimming, because he had fought so hard but had lost the battle. He had been right. Sentiment was found on the losing side after all. John-on-screen raised his gaze, looking desperately into the camera. _“Sherlock, if you hear this… don’t shut me out again, yeah? Talk to me! I don’t know why… why you wouldn’t let me… help. Whatever it is…”_ He grimaced. _“Yeah, whatever it is… let me… let me help! Let me come with you! Don’t leave me… behind… again. Whatever happened, now… or… back then or… whenever!”_ John threw his hands in the air, slammed them back on his thighs, groaned, leaned his elbow on his knee and rested his head in his palm. _“Damnit.”_ It took a moment before he inhaled sharply, squared his shoulders and looked back up. _“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter anymore, okay? It… I… I don’t mind! And I know…”_ He almost forced it out, angry. _“I know, we have hurt each other! And I know it isn’t… good… yet. And…”_ John kneaded his hands. His gaze shifted, he was struggling for words. _“In that song… when you told me to… to give up and… you said we were in ruins and that was fucking true, we were… we are…”_ A huff. _“... at least I am. And then, the next moment, you tell me… that… that I’m the reason and then you’re gone and…”_ John was getting frantic. _“I… I just don’t understand. Sherlock.”_ John’s shoulders sagged, defeated. _“I know it’s all not good yet and… and I hurt you and… everything’s… bollocks.”_ He huffed a small laugh. Glanced at the screen, seeking for Sherlock’s eyes, not finding them. _“But… that’s life… I guess? Life sucks. And it fucking hurts!”_ John ran a hand through his greying hair. Lifting his eyes, looking at the ceiling. _“But… maybe…”_ He looked back down. _“Maybe that’s just what it is, yeah? Maybe that’s what… what life is like and… what we need to… to get better. To… Oh god, this sounds so… sorry, Sherlock…”_ John chuckled again. _“I think, what I want to say is…”_ Now he looked directly at the camera. All insecurity gone, sobre, earnest, matter of fact. _“Maybe, we just have to bear this, make the best of it. Maybe… one needs to fight through this and…”_ He cleared his throat again. _“I… I just can’t give up, okay? I won’t let you go if you just would… would… let me in, Sherlock! Don’t shut me out! Not again! We can do it. Together!”_ One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. A sad version of his once mirthful smirk. _"Remember… just the two of us… against the rest of the world?"_ He silently looked at the camera for a moment. As if waiting for a response. And Sherlock would have loved to give it to him. To confirm it. Yes… that… the two of them. But he couldn't. It was impossible. It was tearing him apart. How? How did people do this? John-on-screen then cleared his throat, stemmed his hands on his knees as if to get up. _"Well, yeah… I… as I said, I don't even know if you get this and… Whatever, I'll try to… to put a vid on this disc… after… uhm... this."_ He made a vague gesture to indicate himself and his surroundings. _"But… you know I have the skills of a guinea pig with these things. Technical and electronic stuff and such I mean. So… I hope it'll work."_ He cleared his throat once again, licked his lips nervously. _"You'll see, I guess. Or not…"_ He muttered under his breath, looking down. After a short while, he stood, walked over to where the camera was set up. For a moment, Sherlock could only see the buttons on John's crumpled checkered shirt covering his stomach, before John crouched down and Sherlock came face to face with a close up of John's face, his eyes intense. _"So, songs seemed to work for us lately, yeah? Well, then, these guys here, they'll tell you what I actually wanted to say… at least… if I get it right."_ Another smirk, a genuine one this time. _"Just… take care, Sherlock. And… yeah, I think I've said it all."_ A last glance at the screen, full of emotions Sherlock couldn't unravel, and then John reached over and the screen went black.

Sherlock tried to breathe. He wouldn't succeed. His head felt dizzy, he felt sick a bit. Why had he done this to himself? He should have known that it wouldn't help… at all. As if it wasn't difficult enough to care and feel and hurt and miss and have to go on with his plans anyway. As if it wasn't enough to feel himself break. Why must there be evidence of John's suffering? He would have preferred to cede that to his imagination. Because it didn't change anything. Because John was right. That's what life was like. In John's words… it sucked. But as always, John saw but didn't observe. He was drawing the wrong conclusions. They wouldn't get better. Not together. 

Just when Sherlock suspected that John's plan to add a video hadn't worked out after all, the screen suddenly came back to life and a man's voice immediately started to sing. Sherlock looked up, but of course John was gone. Some inane video clip playing. So Sherlock closed his eyes and [just listened](https://youtu.be/pfUssvjj4rs). Although he knew he shouldn't, he couldn't stop either.   
  


**_When it feels like surgery_ **

**_And it burns like third degree_ **

**_And you wonder what is it worth?_ **

A small fond smile curled Sherlock's lips. ' _Doctor Watson. But tell, Doctor Watson, what's the worth of pain? What is pain good for? Pain is solely an indicator for destruction and requires removal of the cause.'_

**_When your insides breaking in_ **

**_And you feel that ache again_ **

**_And you wonder_ **

**_What's giving birth?_ **

_'Breaking dams. Flood waves. Destruction. Death. That's what happens when I'm breaking in. That's what's born out of my ache for… for…'_

**_If you could let the pain of the past go_ **

**_Of your soul_ **

**_None of this is in your control_ **

_'But that's the whole problem, John. It_ isn't _in my control!!! Can't you see?? I can't let it go, because it won't be gone because it will happen again!'_ Sherlock ran his fingers nervously through his curls, manic, frantic. 

**_If you could only let your guard down_ **

**_If you could learn to trust me somehow_ **

**_I swear, that I won't let you go_ **

_'It's not you I don't trust, John. I always trusted you. It's never been your fault. It's_ me _I don't trust.'_

**_If you could only let go your doubts_ **

**_If you could just believe in me now_ **

**_I swear, that I won't let you go_ **

**_I won't let you go_ **

_'I believe in you! I do! Now! Then! Please, just believe me. John. You keep me right. Always.'_

  
  


**_When your fear is currency_ **

**_And you feel that urgency_ **

**_You want peace but there's war in your head_ **

_'That's all I want really. Some peace. For me. For you. Just let me give it to us. Please John, let it rest!'_

**_Maybe that's where life is born_ **

**_When our façades are torn_ **

**_Pain gives birth to the promise ahead_ **

A sad chuckle, fingers clenching curls, pulling, tearing. _'Promise? PROMISE? What promise would that be? Pain giving birth to more pain? John… John! I don't want to cause you more pain. Why don't you understand? Please! PLEASE! Understand!'_

**_If you could let the pain of the past go_ **

**_Of your soul_ **

**_None of this is in your control_ **

_'Give me back some control then and let me fix this! Let me set things right which I did wrong, where I failed. I can do this. For you!'_

**_If you could only let your guard down_ **

**_If you could learn to trust me somehow_ **

**_I swear, that I won't let you go_ **

**_If you could only let go your doubts_ **

**_If you could just believe in me now_ **

**_I swear, that I won't let you go_ **

_'Maybe you don't want to let me go, not now. But you will. What should I stay for anyway? For us both to suffer? What's the worth of that?'_

**_I won't let you go_ **

**_I'll always be by your side_ **

**_Yeah_ **

_'You will John, you will. Just not in the way I need you to. It never can be enough. Not for me. Nor for you. It can't John. It can't.'_

**_If you could only let your guard down_ **

**_If you could learn to trust me somehow_ **

**_I swear, that I won't let you go_ **

_'You saw me breaking down. You nursed me back to life. How much more guards could I possibly let down, John? If that wasn't enough, what more must happen? You won't like what would happen next. If I let my guards drop any further.'_ Sherlock growled, yanked at his hair until the searing pain flashed through his skull. _'I don't want to go, John. I don't_ want _to. But what could I do? There's nothing left to do. Let me go.'_

**_If you could only let go your doubts_ **

**_If you could just believe in me now_ **

**_I swear, that I won't let you go_ **

  
  


He hadn't heard someone coming up the stairs. He hadn't expected anyone—well, Mycroft—to still be at home. But then, he wasn't at all aware what time it was. 

When the door to his room creaked a little from being pushed open, he spun around, shocked, feeling caught out. As if he were still the kid from a lifetime ago, discovered by his big brother, nursing the injured hedgehog in his bedroom, feeding him insects, keeping track of it's progress of recovery in a spreadsheet. He even expected the same displeased scowl and the all present 'caring is not an advantage, Sherlock'... 

  
  


**_I won't let you go_ **

  
  


He slammed the laptop shut with much more force than needed, janked the disc out of the device and threw it, in childish panic, across the room in the direction of his bags. With a satisfying bang it hit the wall and bounced off, flipped and tumbled to vanish somewhere behind his bag. 

Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest, threatening to break free. He felt exposed, naked, defenseless. Waiting for the attack, waiting to be sentenced. 

But the only thing coming from Mycroft was a silent "Sherlock" and that was even worse. Sherlock growled, dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head. 

"No." he said silently.

"Don't you think…"

"No." With a bit more force. Still shaking his head.

"Maybe you're misjudging…"

"NO!" He yelled. "You're misjudging! You're all misjudging! You, John! All of you!" He sprung to his feet, hands trembling in fists at his side, his breath coming in ragged puffs. His hair was messed, spiking in all directions, his eyes gleaming with anger. "I. Can't. Stay." He hissed through his clenched teeth. "Can't you see, Mycroft?" He waved a still trembling hand behind himself. "I've hurt him. Again! Since I've come back it has all been going to hell for John. I was selfish. I thought… I wanted…" He stopped to get his disgustingly faltering voice back under control. "But it… I've ruined it. I can't do this to him." His hand fell to his side. His anger faded. His shoulders sagged. "He will get over it. He doesn't have to mourn me this time. It'll be easier. For him. And he would never have to see me again… I'll never have a chance to ruin him again."

"Sherlock… I don't…" A for Mycroft absolutely atypical hesitation and softness clouded his words, contradicting his still stiff attire. 

"Mycroft. Please." Sherlock said silently, whispering.

Mycroft looked at him, not saying a word, not moving. Sherlock wasn't sure if Mycroft was even breathing. Sherlock wasn't. Until Mycroft gave one small nod, turned slowly and retreated hesitantly. 

Sherlock went over, closed the door and returned to the bed to let himself fall onto the covers like a stone. His breath going heavy, wet with unshed tears, with the pressure to keep living without wanting to… not for himself at least. He wouldn't live. But he had to survive.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet, rushed over to where he had thrown the disc to and scrabbled between the bags until he held it in his hands again. **_Miss you! :-(_ ** … _'Yes, me too.'_ Sherlock thought. _'But that doesn't help anyone.'_

He turned the disc in his hands, the edge on the side which had hit the wall splintered, a long crack tracking over the backside. _'Thank God, I never have to watch it again',_ Sherlock thought with a sinking feeling, body heavy as lead, crouching on the floor, not able to get up. 

He propped the disc into the front pocket of his violin case. Closed the zipper. Patted it once, his hand lingering for a moment on the rough fabric.

Then he forced himself to get up, scrambled back to his feet. On wobbly legs he made his way over to the bed, took his coat and his phone and left. Again. Unaware of some last lines never heard and never to be heard from a shattered disc. Lines that held a message that hadn't been able to be put in words. Stuff John Watson wanted to say, but never said it.

  
  
  


**_There ain't no darkness strong enough that could tear you out from my heart_ **

**_There ain't no strength that's strong enough that could tear this love apart_ **

**_Never gonna let you go_ **

**_Never gonna let you go_ **

**_No I won't let you go_ **

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/pfUssvjj4rs)


	12. Fell Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, he had the feeling of being close to Sherlock here. He imagined still feeling his presence in the shivers of light dancing through the dust. This place was important to Sherlock. So now, it was also important to John. Thinking back filled him with gratitude and sorrow. Also with admiration, awe. Love. He still marveled at the pictures in his head, Sherlock’s lean figure filling the room with his presence, owning it, reigning it. John allowed himself to feel the ache of loss of something he never had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my amazing readers,
> 
> first of all: thank you for being here! For reading, commenting, kudos, bookmarks, whatever. Thank you!!  
> Second: let me tell you, after this chapter, even John has had enough (one of us, right?!) 
> 
> Have fun... well, when I say fun...  
> Lots of love,  
> me xxx
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

He regretted it. All of it. He regretted all the things he had done. And all the things he hadn’t. He regretted making the disc, only to be afraid that Sherlock would never see it. He regretted what he had said, and everything he hadn’t said. What if he never got a chance again?

It had been a week since his attempts to get in contact with Sherlock. It had been even more since he had seen him. It had been roughly two since the last time he had been here, at Battersea. John couldn’t help the feeling that it had been here where it had all started to go to shit. Even though their situation had been tense before. Even though it actually hadn’t been great for months. But the start of their way down to the point he now found himself in, he could pinpoint to the day he had followed Sherlock to this place after their massive argument. When he had seen him dance for the very first time. Here he had realised what was at stake, here he had realised what he was losing and that he was losing it. And that was already nearly three weeks ago now. John didn’t know why he felt the urge to come back here, but it seemed to be the only connecting point to Sherlock he had left. 

John tried to come to terms with the undeniability of Sherlock's absence. He had to admit to himself that it was probably pointless to keep trying. It was absurd to still keep up hope. But he had a hard time giving up. He couldn't. He wouldn't. 

He had intended to go back to Baker Street only to realise that he had lost that as well. It just wasn't the same without Sherlock and the memories of a prior period alone and lonely in 221B were still much too vicious. He couldn't live there anymore but he went to visit Mrs Hudson, ask about Sherlock, realising again that Sherlock was definitely gone. Because… he hadn’t even contacted Mrs Hudson. In what universe would Sherlock Holmes abandon Mrs Hudson? ' _Well'_ , John realised, _'in this one apparently'_. After all, he had done it before. It seemed that he wasn’t as attached as John had thought. Apparently John had misjudged Sherlock... in more than one way. But he couldn’t believe that everything had been a ruse. He knew Sherlock. And no-one could convince him otherwise. Not even Sherlock himself. 

Still, he did his best to let him go. He had to. Everything he had tried had failed. What else was he supposed to do? The more than clear message, that his attempts to contact Sherlock weren’t appreciated should have been enough to stop him. Nonetheless, he tried to grasp at every weak straw to prevent himself from drowning. He had asked Greg if he knew any way to contact Sherlock that John hadn't tried yet. But Greg had only shook his head and avoided his gaze, quite sheepishly now that John recalled it, and had told him, “No, sorry mate, not any more.” That had been it. Ruled out, too. 

After a while, new hope. "What about Molly?". After all, Molly was the one who had helped Sherlock the last time he had vanished. Maybe she knew a way to contact him, a place to find him. Something John didn’t know about… after all, it seemed it was a lot more he didn’t know about Sherlock than he had ever anticipated. But no, Molly, too, was only shaking her head, denying any involvement. John couldn’t trust her entirely though. Not after the last time. But she kept assuring him that she really honestly would swear by her own life that she wasn’t involved this time. If not Molly, if not Greg, if not Mrs Hudson, if not John himself… who would be? Nobody. Sherlock was on his own this time. And that made John’s heart clench even more painfully. He should be there with him. If Sherlock would only trust him. If Sherlock would only let him in. But Sherlock didn’t… trust him. Sherlock didn’t want John to know. Didn’t want anyone to know. Sherlock wanted to be left alone. And who was John to disrespect and violate such a clear request? In the end, he was no-one. 

It was only confirmed when the email he had sent returned, couldn’t be delivered, address unknown. When he discovered that even the blog was closed down, one more piece of his world shattered to shreds. Absolutely no way left to contact him. No sign of life. All strings cut. That was the moment he had thought about the disc. That miraculous thing that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere while Sherlock had been dead. Which had appeared when John had already been numb from grief, had been about to give up, had hit rock bottom. That miraculous thing through which Sherlock had talked to him, through which he had talked to Sherlock. A connection like a lifeline where none had been for an eternity. The thing that had given him hope against all odds. 

In a futile desperation to do something, anything, and not just sit back and accept, he had asked Greg for the camera he knew they had used for the video Sherlock had taken for his birthday back then. Greg hadn’t asked, had seen on John’s face that he wouldn’t get an answer anyway. Probably, he didn’t need any answer. Greg knew. Still, John had waited until Greg was out of the house… well… boat… and had set it up. He had recorded the video only once. Didn't watch it back again. Didn't retry. This wasn't a play, this was no game. This was just him. And Sherlock. If John had learned anything, then it was that words once said couldn’t be erased, written over, re-taken. Life was no stage, love was no drama. No rehearsal, no glamorous premiere, no fans to cheer you on. No chance to see it from afar. And most of all, there was no happy ending guaranteed.  
He had brought the disc with him to Baker Street, left it behind for the unlikely case that he might show up… against all expectations. Maybe, if Sherlock didn’t want to get in contact with John, he would still take the disc, would still listen to what John had to say. And if not, John had at least tried, What else was left? However, until now there had been no reaction.

His last hope had been to get in contact with Mycroft. But he, too, had apparently vanished into thin air. No reaction to messages or emails. No calls got picked up, neither on his mobile phone nor at home. His presence at the Diogenes had been negated. John had even gone so far to try to catch Mycroft at home, but was only ever greeted by his staff who kept telling him that Mr Holmes was not available for the near future, that he was traveling, work related, as he so often did. John wasn't fooled. Sherlock had berated him often enough about coincidences and the laziness of the universe. Both brothers not available, both brothers out of the country at the same time? It didn't take a genius to draw conclusions. But what was it worth when there was no way to get in contact with either of them. He knew the Holmes brothers, was familiar enough with the powers of the older one and the stubbornness of the younger one. He knew when he was outplayed.

So, he had no other choice than to make it work, carry on. Although he refused to move on. Never again. But his life kept crawling forward and he had to decide what to do with it. There weren't that many options and at the same time far too many. And none of them was the one he desired. It didn't matter though. He could hardly travel the world hoping to coincidently spot a head of ebony curls at a random market in Samarra. This was actually the only desirable thing to do right now. Get away himself. At least try! No matter how insane it was. Only... there was no way he would be able to put these thoughts into action... without work, without money, without destination. 

However, now, he also had to look for a place to stay. He didn't want to impose on Greg's hospitality any longer. Especially now that John's situation clearly was permanent, that there was no way back, he had to find a place where he could live long-term. Although, the man himself had assured him that it didn't bother him. When John mentioned to look for a hotel to stay in, he had even gotten an earful that he would be unfriended immediately and on top of that would be obliged to pay for every single pint they would have together for the rest of their lives. In the end, he had reluctantly roamed homepages of estate agents and the classifieds columns for a rent instead. However, he couldn't help comparing all the available flats to 221B. Nothing could be enough, nothing could gain his interest, although he knew that he'd never get anything that came even remotely close to Baker Street ever again. At some point though, he had to live elsewhere. It couldn't be helped. Despite Greg's reassurances, he felt bad that Greg could never bring Molly over, at least he never did. He also never stayed at her place and John felt embarrassed that Greg might feel forced to put up with him even after exhausting cases and nights spent at crime scenes. After all, John was kipping on Greg's sofa for almost three weeks now. To top things off, John wasn’t exactly the cheeriest of companies lately.

That's why he tried to stay out of his way. But then, he hadn't many places to go to. It wasn't convenient to stay anywhere longer than a couple of cups of tea or some pints or a meaningless chat or a dinner. He had tried to go to the park, sit in a cafè or a restaurant, but it hadn’t worked. He felt even more alone, he was painfully aware of the absence of his counterpart on all those occasions. It was a tangible gap, the empty chair across the table, the vacant space next to him on the bench. He had got all snappy when a nice enough looking woman had asked if it would bother him, if she would join him, take a seat. Yes, he had nearly yelled. He was waiting for someone, he had said. The seat was occupied, he had said. And in a way it was. The space next to John, at John’s side would always belong to just one person. No matter if physically present at the moment or not. She had shot him a quizzical look when he had left two hours later, obviously alone, with no-one at his side who would have required waiting for. If only she would know… 

The only place he felt somehow sheltered, a bit less lonely, a bit less exposed, was here. Here at Battersea, where he now sat in the dust, back leaned against one of the pillars, head fallen back, supported by the rough surface of the cracked tiles. His hair got tangled in cracks, in never fixed creases of roughly applied sealant nobody was actually caring about. Greyed by the remnants of work finished long ago, greyed by time, by oblivion. It tugged a bit on his hair, just enough to encourage him not to move. That was welcome. He didn’t plan on moving anytime soon anyway. What for? 

He preferred to close his eyes and let the atmosphere of this place seep through him, let himself be soaked by the expanse and sublimity of the building. By the thick walls dividing him from the outside world, concealing him, protecting him, enclosing him. The quiet, the emptiness, the absence of all distracting things not Sherlock. 

Somehow, he had the feeling of being close to Sherlock here. He imagined still feeling his presence in the shivers of light dancing through the dust. This place was important to Sherlock. So now, it was also important to John. Thinking back filled him with gratitude and sorrow. Also with admiration, awe. Love. He still marveled at the pictures in his head, Sherlock’s lean figure filling the room with his presence, owning it, reigning it. John allowed himself to feel the ache of loss of something he never had. Now, he could address his desire to be close to Sherlock, to take care of him. Now, he could acknowledge the moments of hesitation when Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa and John had spread a blanket over him, hand lingering on his shoulder, an irrational urge to stroke his fingers through the curls covering Sherlock’s forehead. Not irrational at all, it seemed. Well, surely irrational in Sherlock’s interpretation of the word. But wholly understandable for John now. What would he give to get such an opportunity again? Would he do it? Just give in? Cross this line? What about Sherlock’s bedroom door, occasionally left ajar? Although Sherlock had never said a word about it during their time living together, John now wondered if it had possibly been an invitation. Or was it only John's imagination going wild to wish it to have been an invitation? With the exception of danger nights, John had never actively or intentionally infringed Sherlock's privacy or personal space. But what if he would have? Should he have done it? Give in to his desire? Just walk up to that door, push it open and… Yeah, what then? 

_'No'_ , John realised. _'It wouldn't have worked.'_ It hadn't been like that. Only recently he had realised that there was a deep desire in the first place. Only now he was aware of the nature of his feelings towards Sherlock. Of course, he had always loved Sherlock. And he had always known it. Although, he had thought it had been in the range of friendship. A quite intense friendship admittedly, but what wasn't intense about Sherlock? 

Apparently John had misjudged where the line was drawn between friendship and… something else, something more. Despite Sherlock's belief, John wasn't very experienced with friendships. Yes, people easily took a liking to him. Although first of all, most of the time that wasn't reciprocal. John had just learned to adopt socially appropriate and friendly behaviour to gain people's trust, being a doctor and all. People responded very easily to that, misjudging his thorough care and treatment and interest as friendship. People were usually idiots though. Because the second thing was, only very rarely, almost never, it really turned into friendship. And honestly, even then he sucked at being a friend. He barely met his so called friends, rarely texted, never called. The occasional contact, work related, birthdays, unintentional run-into-each-others and catch-up-over-coffee-to-go. How much were such friendships worth? Actually, John had acquaintances. And then, he had Sherlock. So, how was he supposed to know what real friendship involved? Felt like? Let alone a best-friend-friendship. A soulmate-friendship. A life-saving-friendship. 

Ultimately, who was he to judge at which point those feelings slithered from friendship into deeper waters? He had never been friends with one of his previous lovers. John shivered, his heartbeat speeding up a notch. Previous... “Previous” suggests that he currently had a lover.… or a going-to-be lover…  
John huffed. _‘No, not going to happen.’_ At least not the one he’d want to. Not now that Sherlock was gone. John had had his chance. And he had wasted it. Anyway, would Sherlock have wanted it at all? John seriously doubted it. Greg was of the opinion that that song was a love declaration. But how could he be sure about that? Sherlock had never said a word. And not a single time the word love was mentioned. What if Greg was wrong? What if he interpreted Sherlock’s song choice out of the same appropriate-friendship-feeling-confusion? Maybe John massively exaggerated it all and just heard what he wanted to hear… hoped to hear... Plus, there was the minor fact that Sherlock wanted John out of his life. And the more than clear message, that he thought John wouldn’t be good for him. That Sherlock was looking for something else. Even worse, some- _one_ else. Someone not John. 

He tried to take a deep breath but it turned into a strangled sigh. This would be hard. He wasn’t sure if it would be any better or even harder than the last time without Sherlock. The last time he had had some closure. Sherlock had been… dead. Of course, that had been hard to deal with. Also, John had always kept wondering if he could have done anything different to avoid it. But it had been final, irrevocable. A fact. Something one learned to live with… at some point. Now though, he knew that Sherlock was out there, somewhere. Out of reach, but still alive, present, available of sorts. Just not for John. He felt awfully guilty for even thinking this way. Wasn’t it better to have a Sherlock alive and well, than a dead one? Shouldn’t he be sort of glad about this not so insignificant difference? But he couldn’t help to feel even worse. This was an intentional rejection. This was an active retreat. This was knowingly repeating a situation that had almost ruined John the first time. He wasn't able to convince himself to feel anything good about it. And if he was honest, he was fucking jealous. Jealous of every person, that would have the fortune to be in Sherlock’s life. Of every person, that would be allowed to interact with him. Of the one person, who would be privileged to share their life with Sherlock… live with him… love him… and be loved by him.

John shook his head violently, tearing out some hair, scraping the back of his head on the plaster. No, there was absolutely no benefit from dwelling on things that were never meant to be. He had to deal with it. He had to try. But he vowed to himself and every deity or higher power that might or might not exist, that if he ever got a chance again, he would let Sherlock know. No matter if Sherlock reciprocated his feelings or not, he would have to make use of such a gift and not waste another opportunity again. 

Still sitting on the dusty floor, John drew his knees closer, circled them with his arms and lowered his head to rest his forehead on his knees. He tried to take deep breaths but failed, unsure if it was caused by his crouched position or by the memories flooding his mind. He tried to cherish them though, as they were probably the only thing he had left of Sherlock. Nevertheless, he couldn't help to feel torn between adoration and anger, between gratitude and hurt, between fondness and irritation, between love and… love and… 

While John clung to his own legs he felt as vulnerable as the little boy he once had been, sitting in this exact same position, hiding in his wardrobe to tune out the shouting from his parents' bedroom, torn between wanting everything to stay as it was and everything to change at the same time. He rocked slightly back and forth, feeling a faint breeze tenderly caress the bare skin of his nape, soft from the first hints of summer hanging in the air. In contrast to the stuffy cocoon created by his body. The air within was humid, probably because of his own breathing. Certainly not because of the moisture clinging to his lashes. 

Lost in thought he was startled by a scratching and scrunching. At first he thought of rats seeking shelter in the abandoned building the same way he did. He scanned the dusted floor next to him when he realised that it was the noise of nearing footsteps in the dust. Shit, he should have known that this place had security and got checked regularly. Of course they would secure a place like this. Homeless and squatters taking over vacant buildings was a common problem in London after all. Maybe it was one of those. Or was someone looking for him? Greg? No, why would he? He hastily shuffled backwards into the shadows. Either way, he felt absolutely no desire whatsoever to be discovered and to have to explain his presence. 

Holding his breath, he felt his heart hammering furiously in his chest. He wouldn’t be surprised if they would be able to hear it all the way across the hall. He tried to willingly calm it, but without the possibility to take deep breaths, his stupid heart wouldn’t listen. He felt a panic attack bubble up. _‘No, no, no… not now’_ , John tried to actively push it down. He had to concentrate. Best not to pay any attention to whoever was so rudely disturbing his safe haven which was the bubble of silence and detachment he had created for himself in this otherworldly place. If he stayed as far away as possible, maybe they wouldn’t realise he was there, they would leave again and give him back his desperately needed space. Why couldn’t he just be left alone? By anyone really. He wanted nothing more than to have somewhere to himself, a place to retreat and lick his wounds. Wasn’t that what hurt animals did? Seek shelter, take care of themselves, wait until they were able to return to their lives as if nothing had happened? Well, he felt as bruised as a miserable little house cat after being attacked by a panther. A place to recover really wasn’t that much to ask for, was it?

Squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to keep his breathing even, he tried to magically make the intruder disappear by pure wil alone. He frowned when he realised that the footsteps had stopped approaching. Actually, there was no more noise whatsoever. Maybe, whoever it was had gone away without noticing John. Maybe he had been lucky… for once in his life? _'No, not true'_ , John thought. He had survived Afghanistan to meet Sherlock after all. And then, there was the miracle of Sherlock coming back from the dead. So, he had been lucky at least twice… 

Better grab the chance and leave unnoticed as long as he could, thought John. He peeked around the corner of the pillar he was sitting behind to check if the coast was clear. 

And froze. 

Across the hall, half hidden in the shadows, back turned halfway towards John crouched Sherlock. In a reflex John flinched back behind his pillar. If John had thought that his heart was beating too fast before, it was now racing to the point that it skipped beats because it tumbled all over itself. His heart didn’t know what it was required to do anymore. Galloping? Stopping altogether? Jumping? Freezing? Burning? Exploding? Imploding? He felt the dull thumping through his whole body, the pulsing waves of hot yet icy blood filling every last inch, every last cell. It was too much. He didn't know what to feel, didn't feel anything anymore from feeling too much. If John wouldn't have known better he would think he had gone into cardiac arrest. It felt numb, like a vacuum, in his chest. His exhausted heart had shut down, denying any and all cooperation how to handle the mess that was his emotional state. John pressed his palms against his face. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be Sherlock. How could this be Sherlock? Was it just his imagination running wild? He hadn’t been able to see the person very clearly after all. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. With Sherlock always on his mind the last few weeks, maybe his brains just connected any remote resemblance to the man? It wouldn’t be the first time that John was seeing him in places where it was impossible for him to be. Hallucinating him really. In times of despair. Of absence. Of Sherlock’s absence. Indefinite absence. 

Not trusting his own senses, John hesitantly turned to take another glance around the corner. All the air in his lungs left him at once. There he still was. Even if not in plain sight, the dark curls, the familiar stretch of the back underneath a white shirt, bespoke trousers clinging to that arse, stretching over thighs in this crouching position… it was unmistakably Sherlock.

Frozen in place, not able to wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock was here, in person… still trying to convince himself that he wasn't just a product of his own muddled mind, John couldn't do anything but watch.

Obviously unaware of John's presence, Sherlock rummaged in a kind of nook hidden from John's view. He seemed to be agitated, restless, tense. He pulled out some items, let them drop carelessly next to his feet. He seemed to search for something specific which apparently he didn't find. This was confirmed when he slammed his flat hand against the wall and cursed something John couldn't exactly understand across the hall. But when Sherlock suddenly stood, running his fingers through his hair and yelled "Fuck!" from the top of his lungs, John started to worry. Hearing Sherlock swear like that was a very rare occurrence in itself, witnessing him do so in the state he seemed to be in was even worse. What was he searching for? Was it the drugs John had disposed of after Sherlock's break down? Did Sherlock expect to find them here? He hadn't taken them after all… He almost tended to leave his hiding place when he saw Sherlock slightly shaking his head and starting to look around, scanning the room to all sides as if to be sure not to be watched. Although he hadn't moved one inch, John withdrew further into the shadows. He felt himself getting smaller by the second, shrinking, crumbling… 

His thoughts came to a screeching halt when he saw Sherlock shrugging to himself, then reaching for his belt and starting to unbuckle it. John swallowed hard when Sherlock continued to pop open the button of his trousers and lowered the zip. The swish of the little metal teeth being forced to let go of each other seemed to roar in John's ears, echoing through his skull, causing all strings of nerves to resonate, to vibrate, to pulsate, to quiver. He blushed furiously. What was Sherlock doing? Why was he doing it? And even more important… What was John supposed to do? He felt split in two, fighting with himself. The one part was already running as fast as he was capable of, almost reached the exit, almost got away because… under no circumstances was it okay to stay and watch. Sherlock was obviously not aware of John's presence so he felt safe and alone and… well… unwatched. This was violating his privacy in the extreme! This was intruding, this was voyeurism, this was creepy, this was… not okay! He should leave! Most definitely! But the other part of him couldn't move as much as his pinkie. He couldn't leave. He just couldn't. He couldn't turn his eyes away, he couldn't stop staring. Nobody could ask that of him, could they? After all… this was Sherlock. And he couldn't leave now he had finally found him. Maybe not so much found… but… but he was there! In the flesh! And that was part of John's problem. Because what in the name of God was he doing there? 

John's breath got shallow over this internal fight although he long since knew which part had won the upper hand. He tried to force himself to avert his eyes, but the only result was a slight flicker from Sherlock to a micrometre next to him into the void and back. He couldn't… he just couldn't… 

By now Sherlock bent forwards, presenting his quite nice behind in full view to John, which didn't help his case in the slightest. Sherlock was untying his shoes, toeing them off and getting rid of his socks by hooking his toes under the cuffs and pull. How, John wondered, how did he even manage to make taking off socks look elegant? How? But even these insane yet life-changing thoughts got wiped away when Sherlock started to shimmy out of his trousers. John shook his head. And shook it again. He squeezed his eyes shut but popped them open again immediately, because he couldn't miss a single second. Even though… he had to leave!! Now!! But couldn't… he just… couldn't. 

When Sherlock was left in only his tight black boxer briefs and his white dress shirt, which he started to unbutton, the sleeves already rolled up, John gave up and resigned to his fate. He sagged back against the pillar, seeking at least some kind of support and sighed. He immediately slammed a hand over his mouth, afraid his noisy breath would make Sherlock aware of him after all, but apparently Sherlock was lost in thought, too deep in his own mind to realise anything suspicious. John sighed again in relief and slammed his hand back, wincing about his own stupidity. Well, in his defence, how was he supposed to form any coherent thought. How??

Keeping Sherlock in sight by the corner of his eye, John saw him picking something from the pocket of his coat, which he had draped over one of the iron railings. He fiddled with it when he, totally undisturbed, shuffled his way out of the shadows, step after each sluggish step, soles scraping the floor, leaving puffs of dust in his wake. 

John looked closer, initially trying to figure out the item in Sherlock's hands, but the moment Sherlock stepped into the light, John winced in self pity. From one moment to the other Sherlock was… for the lack of a better word… illuminated. The fascinating play of light over shifting muscles and tendons on Sherlock's forearms and hands caught his attention first. That was where his gaze had lingered after all. But soon his eyes drifted over the lean figure walking onwards unaware of the mind-blowing sight it provided. The bright and vivid light of an early morning pouring over Sherlock got tangled in the fine tips of the man’s messy curls pointing out in all directions, like ruffled feathers, shine-through enough to create a glowing rim framing his serious face. The white shirt seemed to become even whiter in the light, all the shifting folds and creases hugging Sherlock’s upper body, sinfully pronouncing his shape and outlines. The seam reaching his hips delivered a stark contrast to deeply black pants the material of which, pitily, absorbed all the light, making it difficult to distinguish any other details than the curving of an delectable butt. John was astonished how light and fairly sparse the hairs on Sherlock’s legs were in contrast to the nearly untameable mop of ebony curls on his head. Of course, he had seen Sherlock’s legs before, goddamn… he had even completely undressed the man not so very long ago… but never like this. Never able to really look, to observe, to admire, to… cherish, without the fear to be caught or deduced. And surely never under the same circumstances. The still timid sunbeams being caught like tiny sparks reflected by the little ginger hairs, sparkling in the shifting movements of Sherlock finding his way through the room, creating shadows on his inner thighs where the hair emerging from under his pants was a bit thicker. 

John’s imagination ran wild. He wanted to caress that leg hair, run his hands over it, feel its texture, catch the tiny sparks with his fingertips. He would stroke down to where the hairs thinned out, nearly vanished, at the back of Sherlock’s knees. He would be able to feel what he imagined, smooth pale skin, spread his fingers over slim but strong calves, let them slide over lean and sinewy feet. To John's own surprise, as sensual as these thoughts were, as enticing as Sherlock's appearance was, this urge to touch him held a completely different desire. God knows, John had fantasized to touch Sherlock in very indecent ways more than once by now, but this… this was different. Sherlock was right there within reach and John could barely believe it. He would be able to _feel_ Sherlock, being here, being real. His hands on Sherlock's feet, making sure the soles touched the ground—solid, not floating, no imagination—he would stop him, bring him to a halt, make him look at him. John realised he would have to kneel in front of Sherlock to do so, he would be towered by the whole beautiful expanse of consulting detective. And he wouldn’t mind. It wouldn’t mean what it would look like. It wouldn't be an offer nor a demand. It wouldn't mean that he would take a subordinate role or lie at Sherlock’s feet to be kicked around. No. He'd never want that for either of them! They were equals, neither of them deserved that nor had the right to do that to the other. That's what all this would be about. It would mean to meet each other on eye level, partners, together. It would mean _‘stop, wait, look at me, I’m here, I’m not running, I’m not going anywhere, I’m here, waiting for you’_ . It would mean _‘stop running, take a rest, come here, come sit with me, lean on me, grounded, we both. Together’..._

But for now there was nothing left for him to do than stare. He could hardly walk up to Sherlock when he was standing there, coming out of nowhere, half-naked… no, nononono. No… he couldn't even think that, no! When he wasn't properly dressed, apparently not expecting anyone. He couldn’t say all those words, when they had never before come even remotely close to this sort of subject. When he didn’t even know what Sherlock thought… wanted… felt. Suddenly he had to think about the vow he had made to himself. He couldn’t let this chance slip… not again. But how could he knowingly risk the tiny chance he was given just now. By accident. By coincidence. By sheer and utter luck. How was he supposed to take that risk? But he had to. He knew it. If _he_ wouldn’t have the courage to do it, nothing would change. And if nothing changed, then nothing would change. And that was unacceptable under the current circumstances.

The moment John inhaled deeply to gather all the bravery he could muster, Sherlock stopped fiddling, raised his head and, while still moving, tossed the object in his hands carelessly aside into the dust. Almost immediately the room was [filled with music](https://youtu.be/MuLKS3sVTuQ), coming from the nook Sherlock had emerged from. Although, not really music. More like a voice, a female voice, carrying a simple yet powerful melody. The voice seemed surprisingly young and yet it was oddly rough and mature. Only accompanied by minimalistic single piano notes. 

Without stopping in his tracks, Sherlock seemed… like in a sort of osmosis… to slowly absorb the melody into each of his body's cells and his movements seamlessly merged from mere walking into something else altogether. This was nothing like John had seen before. This was, no doubt, dance… but nothing like the clear forms, precise techniques of which John knew nothing and none of the energetic jumps and turns either. Everything looked somehow smooth and supple, fluent. Almost fluid, John thought. He was transfixed. He looked at Sherlock's slender body bowing and stretching the lean limbs, dropping into heaps, raising again like waves on the ocean. Always a pensive expression and hint of a frown on his face. He looked vulnerable this way. Yet strong. 

John watched the bulging muscles of Sherlock's thighs working, contradicting the delusive impression of effortlessness of his movements. The undefined, elapsing, ungraspable creature being kept together by tendons straining, from heels to calves, from calves to thighs, from inner thighs all the way up, stretching soft marble skin, until vanishing underneath deep black cotton at Sherlock’s groin. 

John felt dizzy. It was a mystery to him, how all this could be so physical, so fascinating, so enticing and yet, at the same time, so otherworldly, so graceful, so poignant.

Sherlock was the untamable force of the water and the drowning man at the same time. 

John felt the constricting feeling of worry creep around in his chest. Not that he hadn’t been worried before, extremely so, but this was a different kind of worry. It wasn’t the frantic and nearly panic-y kind of worry caused by loss and doubts. This was worry facing the deep felt pain of a loved person without the chance to reach out, worry of helplessness and uncertainty. John almost couldn’t stand to stay in the shadows any longer, but was also aware that Sherlock needed this solitude. He couldn’t interrupt, disturb whatever this meant to Sherlock. But afterwards… when Sherlock was finished, he had to find out. He had to face it. No matter what it would be. No longer torn, having made up his mind, John slowly started registering the words which formed the melody. 

It didn’t ease the pain he felt on Sherlock’s behalf… on his own behalf… in the slightest.

**Thought if I ignored it it'd fade away**

**Thought that it be sorted if I didn't stay**

**Thought if I numbed it all I wouldn't have to face it**

**But guess what...**

**The more you hide, the more it breaks you**

Was that the reason why he was leaving? Trying to run from something? Hiding, avoiding to face it? But what was ‘it’? John had thought that Sherlock was leaving _for_ something… someone, not leaving because of something. John had thought Sherlock had a new purpose, something… someone to look forward to, something to gain. What was it that he wanted to ignore, to numb? To run from? After all, Sherlock left his whole life behind. But John couldn't help the feeling that the one thing Sherlock was leaving behind above all was John himself…

John’s eyes widened, he felt a lump form in his throat. It couldn’t be… could it? But Sherlock had said… John had thought… it didn’t make sense. Why would Sherlock think…  
  


**But it just got harder to move**

**When the walls came in, there was no excuse**

**I was so far from the truth**

**You knew me better than I knew you** **  
  
**

You? John felt the ridiculous nervousness of being addressed. He felt his heart beat, could hear it thumping. _‘Me?’_ , he wanted to shout, but couldn’t. _‘Do you mean me?_ Do _I still know you? Why don’t you know me? How can you not know, Sherlock? You of all people! You_ have _to know!! And what… what_ is _the truth?? Tell me, if you know!’_ John was close to begging, screaming in his mind. 

All the while Sherlock kept transforming the melody into trancelike motions. He reminded John of anemones pulled and pushed by the undersea current. His upper body dipped sidewards, arms seemingly limp but controlled nonetheless. Rising, led by long legs, first bowed then stretched towards the desired direction. No edges, no hesitations, no interruptions. Fluid. Molten. Yet, weirdly matching and mirroring John’s drumming heartbeat. 

Until he realised that it had been a slight beat sneaking into the music. He was only aware that it was missing the moment it faded.  
  


**And I**

**fell apart, fell apart**

**Fell apart right there**

**And you saw my heart, saw my heart**

**You saw my heart bare  
  
** ****

Again John wondered, did Sherlock mean him? Fell apart? Where? When? In John’s memory raised only one moment when Sherlock had really fallen apart. It had been right here, John had been here, John had caught him… but… had that been Sherlock’s heart bare, not being able to hide anymore? _‘What have I seen, Sherlock? What? I don’t know anything anymore… I don’t understand. I need some help here! I’m just an idiot, remember?’  
  
_

**Told myself it wouldn't hurt if I just stayed hollow**

**But I got stuck in my words and it burned to swallow**

**Thought if I numbed it all I wouldn't have to face it**

**But guess what...**

**The more you hide, the more it breaks you  
  
**

_‘So it’s not only me, who got stuck in his words? What couldn’t you tell me, Sherlock? Is there something you didn’t tell me? There’s so much I have to tell you! Which I couldn’t say. Didn’t dare to say. Until now… and yes… it burns. It burns to keep it inside. I’m burning, my heart is burning. Something left here to burn after all…’_

And suddenly John’s view shifted. Sherlock looked different. He hadn’t changed anything. But his leg, slowly lifting, tip of his toes smoothly sliding along his calf, upwards, reaching the lower part of his inner thigh before losing contact. Flickering outwards, up in the air, mirrored by the same side’s arm, hand twisting and curling at the highest end of the artistic sculpture he formed… it was like flames licking along his body, the sparks caught on his legs turning into ember, brought to life by the air sloshing around Sherlock’s dancing form. Sending tendons of bright warm light into the atmosphere. Making the hot air wafting around him, covering him in a cocoon of melting heat. 

Sherlock was on fire. He was burning, too. 

It made John’s sight getting blurry. He felt his own face glow, his eyes water from the impact of the realisation.  
  


**And it just got harder to move**

**When the walls came in, there was no excuse**

**I was so far from the truth**

**You knew me better than I knew you  
  
**

_‘No, Sherlock. Neither of us really knows the other… not yet at least. We’re hiding. Both. Let’s get to know each other all over again, learn each other, explore each other. Love each other.’_

John heard the heartbeat again. This time aware of the slight shift in Sherlock’s motions. The little adjustments to match the beat, to match John’s heartbeat. John’s heartbeat attuning to Sherlock’s rhythm. The two of them in sync.   
  


**So I**

**fell apart, fell apart**

**Fell apart right there**

**And you saw my heart, saw my heart**

**You saw my heart bare  
  
**

John watched in awe, hovering at the rim of the shadows. Shifting where he stood, hands nervously fidgeting on his hips, eager to let himself be known. He didn’t want to push Sherlock though, to force him. John wanted to get it right this time. He had to choose the right moment. So he waited. And watched. And marveled at the magnificent mystery that was Sherlock. He was constantly shifting between fire and water, between burning and drowning, between vigour and tranquility, between dare and retreat, between forwards and backwards. 

It took him a moment before he got aware that he had lost track of time while ogling Sherlock. Distracted by the mesmerising sight, he hadn’t realised that the lyrics kept repeating themselves, that the song was on a never ending loop. So much for waiting. Indecisive, John turned the options over in his head. Should he wait? Would Sherlock stop? Sherlock had to stop at one point. But when? He had proven before that he could keep this going for hours. Days even? Until breaking down? Again? But if John interrupted, would that take Sherlock by surprise, startle him, spook him even? Would that destroy the moment? Would that destroy this last chance John got? But if he waited and had to watch Sherlock wear himself out? What if Sherlock would be too tired, too exhausted to even listen to John? Could he risk that? Should he just step in? But if it went wrong? There was no possibility to do it over… either way… 

He waited. Shifting. Fidgeting. Growing impatient. Jittery. Feeling the time running through his fingers like the fine ivory sand from the memories of his youth... of the beach during campfires, lying on towels in the shadows, enjoying the view of the ocean in the distance and dark hair and blue eyes close by. Of tempting lips curled around a cigarette. 

When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he took a step forwards into the lit space. It was liberating. Relieving. Sherlock still didn’t notice him. So he took one more hesitant step. And one more. And when it only felt better, easier, with each step taken, he moved into the room. Sherlock kept drifting through the room, curling in on himself, limps lashing out, melting back, surging into the next movement. John faltered, unsure how to approach Sherlock, how to reach out to him without getting hurt himself.

In the end he made his way along the edges, to not unnecessarily disturb Sherlock, to the nook at the opposite side. He found the source of the music and turned it off.

The sudden silence was deafening. Sherlock stopped abruptly and spun around. In the blink of an eye the expression on his face changed from fury to shock to joy to dread to puzzlement to wariness… to embarrassment. His face turned an alarming but also quite endearing shade of deep red.

“John!” he cried horrified, hastily tugging at his shirt to cover himself, which didn’t help much regarding the much more exposed lower half of his body. He flittered nervously around, back and forth, looking for a way out, for a solution for the awkward situation. 

John, noticing his discomfort, backed away a bit from Sherlock’s belongings to give him some space. In an instant Sherlock rushed over. He grabbed his trousers and pulled them on hastily, very ungracefully hopping and fumbling and dragging. 

"Why are you here?" demanded Sherlock to know, throwing nervous glances John’s way.

"Why are you?" countered John involuntary without thinking.

Both fell silent, knowing that neither of them could provide an easy answer of a few words. Too much water under the bridge, too many bridges burned, too many words unsaid. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked defensively, distracting himself with collecting his stuff, avoiding eye contact.

Everything he had thought about tumbled over in John’s head. In panic he tried to grasp for words. What did he want? Everything! But what first? What should he say? The words stuck in his throat. Nothing would make sense in just a few words. He wanted a whole new life and still so much of the old one. Now facing the reality, facing Sherlock, he couldn’t form a coherent thought. He had to say something… he couldn’t just stand there mute like a goldfish, mouth gaping in search of his voice.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Was what came out in the end. John wondered where that had come from.

"About what?" Sherlock asked defensively, warily. Stopping his bustle. Inspecting John head to toe.

"This…" John waved a hand vaguely first at the hall and then in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock looked puzzled, then frowned and tilted his head to look intensely at John.

“After… everything… _that_ is what you want to know?” His disbelief undisguised and plain to see on his features. When John didn’t say anything, because he couldn’t, Sherlock straightened and squared his shoulders.

"When should I have? And how?" Sherlock hissed, hurt, eyes narrowed to slits. "Should I just have walked up to you, sitting cosily on the sofa together and tell you ‘John, by the way, let me show you where I go, to _hide_ , each time we argue. Let me show you what I do to try to avoid _running away_ , to avoid giving in to the temptation, the urge, the _itching_ … what I do to try to keep me right when _you_ can't…' Yeah…” he huffed icily. “That would have been great, don't you think?" Sherlock was breathing heavily, body rigid, like a bow ready to launch an arrow. 

John was baffled, this wasn’t what he had expected, most definitely not what he had hoped for. Apart from that he hadn’t anticipated this much wrath and anger. He took a cautious step in Sherlock’s direction, holding a shaky hand up as a peace offering.

“Yeah… you should have.” He said silently. “I would have wanted to know.”

“And then?” Sherlock snarled. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. What would it have been to you anyway? With all your… display of … manliness. All your… rugby… and pub nights and… mates.” He spat out like poison. “The dancing fairy? Just one more to add to the list of the freak’s oddities.” Sherlock turned, his back towards John, keeping his hands busy with the buttons of his shirt.

“Sherlock! I would never…,” John whispered, aghast. “You _have_ to know by now…” He fell silent, not knowing how to react. Thoughts, emotions, fears and sorrows whirling in his mind. Did Sherlock really think that low of him? Where had that come from? Who had hurt him this much, that he would expect people to react this way? Suddenly some gears clicked into space. “You still don’t trust me.” He said a bit more forcefully, taken aback. 

Sherlock’s hands stilled, his shoulders sagged. He was silent for a moment before turning his head slightly and glancing back over his shoulder at John.

“That’s not it…” He said very quietly, all the previous rage gone. “I’m the one I don't trust.” Turning back he continued his fiddling.

“But I do!” John exclaimed without hesitation. 

That made Sherlock turn, staring at John, his hands frozen halfway up his shirt buttons. 

“Why would you…?” The pained fierceness in his eyes urged John to reach out, to take hold of him, to pull him in his arms. But he knew instinctively that Sherlock would pull back, retreat, shut him out. He struggled for words, for how to express what he felt so deeply.

"Because of everything you are, Sherlock." He said insistently. "Because of everything you did… for me."

For a moment Sherlock just looked at him, scanning his face, searching his gaze. Then he lowered his eyes.

"Exactly." He said flatly. "That's why I don't."

He turned while quickly finishing buttoning his shirt. He hastened to pick up his coat and grabbed the last remaining items lying in the dust… mobile phone, USB device, Bluetooth speaker, belt… 

John had the unsettling feeling of being dismissed, discussion closed. He felt dread creeping in on him from the shadows, caging him in, threatening to suffocate him. Was this it? Had this been _the_ one last chance? _'It can't be…'_ John thought terrified. ' _I wasn't even able to tell him. He needs to know. He has to get a chance to make a decision, to have all the facts… to have a choice!'_

When Sherlock shrugged his coat on and stuffed the things he held into the various pockets, John began to panic. Was Sherlock about to leave? Without thinking he launched forward with the intention to grab Sherlock by his shoulder, hold him back, turn him around to face him. 

"Sherlock! Wait! Please, listen to me! I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, if I'm…" he stammered, nearly stumbling over his own feet in his eagerness. He was mortified by the amount of desperation seeping into his voice. 

But just the moment John thought he'd have a grip on Sherlock, the man flinched back and his piercing gaze penetrated John deep into his core. 

"No, John. Please. Spare me… spare _us…_ the excuses! All the apologies.” He shook his head. Curls falling into his eyes. “It’s not… it’s no-ones fault, John. Neither yours nor mine. We tried and we failed. That’s the facts. We should just accept it, don’t you think?”

“No! No, I don’t think so!” John said resolutely. “I can’t just accept that.”

“Why?” Sherlock almost yelled. “Why, John? Can’t you see that this wouldn’t work? Why hang on to something that isn’t good for either of us? Believe me, John. It might not look like it right now, but we’re better off without each other.” Without another word he turned and without hesitation he made his way towards the exit.

“What happened to ‘The two of us against the rest of the world’?” John called after Sherlock’s retreating back. “What about the thrill of the chase? About the blood pumping through our veins? That’s all over and done with?” 

Sherlock turned on his heel. Didn’t move otherwise. Didn’t come closer. Didn’t even blink.

“Maybe… we should just stop chasing something that was never meant to be.” He said quietly. “It would never be what each of us would _want_ it to be. We could never…” He trailed off, swallowed hard. “Neither of us would be able to _be_ what the other would need him to be.” 

“How would you know?” John questioned.

“Believe me, John…” Sherlock huffed sarcastically, sadly, resigned. “I’m quite certain.” 

“Well… I’m not!” John insisted.

Facing John’s stubbornness, Sherlock’s eyes softened, a corner of his mouth lifting into a small fond but melancholy smile. His gaze dropped to the floor.  
Silently he added: “We should stop fighting the inevitable. Spare us all the troubles. It’s not worth it.”

With that he inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising with it, and walked slowly over to John. He stopped at arm length from him and directed his intense gaze at John's face. His eyes roamed over John’s features, tracing each line as if drinking in the sight of him. John felt laid bare, but couldn’t care less to be exposed. He tried not to hide anything, to let everything he felt for Sherlock show. Without looking away Sherlock raised his arm and held his hand out. Baffled, John looked down at the outstretched hand and back up at Sherlock, whose gaze had never left John’s face. John frowned, but Sherlock didn’t falter or shift. So John slowly reached out and took Sherlock’s warm hand into his. They didn’t shake them. They just held on to each other. 

“To the very best of times, John.” Sherlock whispered.

After a moment, John felt a slight squeeze, then a shake and he expected Sherlock to let go. But he didn’t. They were still staring at each other, the tension palpable, the air crackling between them. John felt the urge to just tug on that hand, pull the man over and down and press his lips firmly on Sherlock’s. Tell him everything he felt but couldn’t say with a kiss he was longing for with an intensity that stole his breath. Sherlock swayed on his feet. Eyes pleading. John just didn’t know what for. 

Suddenly Sherlock exhaled shakily and the spell was broken. John tried to hold on to him. But in the end Sherlock slipped his hand slowly out of John’s grip. Turned. Stopped. And hollowly added, facing away from John: “Oh... and John… don’t look for me. You won’t succeed. And also no need to come back here. At least... I won’t.” With that he walked away, without another look back. 

Thunderstruck, John stood rooted into place. He tried to grasp what had just happened. John was quite certain that he hadn’t been the only one who had felt the gravity of the moment. Who had felt the pull towards each other. The almost… something. Why then did Sherlock leave? Wait... did John _let_ him leave? Why did he let him leave? 

Suddenly the halls surrounding him didn't hold any comfort for him anymore. They only felt empty, abandoned, lifeless. Where he had felt secure before he now only felt oppressed and almost crushed under the massive walls of the buildings. Closed off, trapped. John clutched the short strands of his greyish hair and groaned.

Feeling the sting of pain on his scalp some of the fog in his mind started to clear up. He tried to assemble all the loose flittery snippets of his impressions to form a bigger picture. Then, suddenly, he wondered... where had Sherlock even come from? He had been well dressed, well groomed, well nourished… at least for his standards… so he had to live somewhere equipped enough to make that possible. No bolthole, no homeless network, no Wiggins would be able to achieve that. As realisation dawned he could barely contain his fury. An angry outcry and a fist hurt from punching a wall later he fumbled for his phone. Mustering all his patience he tried to calm his thoughts and come up with a plan for how to proceed.

His hands shaking from barely manageable self-restraint, he hammered his fingertips on the screen to dial a by now well known number. When he only got transferred to the voicemail, he would have loved to throw his phone across the room. He briefly closed his eyes, took a deep breath. And started to type.

**send 09.12 am  
** **Mycroft Holmes. Don’t you dare ignore me! Out of the country? MY ARSE!!! This is a new low. Even for you!!! You owe me! And you know it! There’s a thing you have to do for me. And you WILL!!! Call me! NOW!!!**

**  
  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/MuLKS3sVTuQ)


	13. Love Alone Is Worth The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He ought to be packing right now. He ought to be preparing. At least, he ought to attend some boring meeting for a briefing he didn't care about. Because tomorrow was the day! And they couldn't afford to lose time. Now more than ever!
> 
> Instead, he was utterly irked sitting in Mycroft's kitchen. The most terrifying thing about it was that Mycroft was preparing tea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather short-ish (as it goes for this fic...) but there was nothing more to add. I think it is as important as it is short... yeah, that.
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

He ought to be packing right now. He ought to be preparing. At least, he ought to attend some boring meeting for a briefing he didn't care about. Because tomorrow was _the_ day! And they couldn't afford to lose time. Now more than ever!

Instead, he was utterly irked sitting in Mycroft's kitchen. The most terrifying thing about it was that Mycroft was preparing tea. 

The tea alone wouldn't be so frightening. They were Brits after all. It was always tea-time. And tea was the solution to everything. But… Mycroft? Three-piece-suit-Mycroft? Someone-hand-me-the-paper-to-wipe-my-arse-Mycroft? Standing in his own kitchen, no staff to be seen, suit jacket shed, preparing _tea_? It was unheard of and the most suspicious thing Sherlock had ever encountered in his whole career as a Consulting Detective. Something was seriously wrong and Sherlock was fuming that he couldn't figure out what Mycroft was up to. 

Up to the point they had entered Mycroft's kitchen everything had gone according to Sherlock's predictions. Of course he had known that Mycroft would locate his bolt hole eventually. Actually, he had downright counted on him doing so. But John wouldn't. And that was the whole point. 

He knew how stubborn the man was. He knew, although he always pretended to be good at following orders, John never accepted someone else telling him what to do or how to do it, unless he approved anyway. That had been one of the attractions of working with John Watson. Living with John Watson. That had been one of the things that had made them the perfect match. There'd never been the need to discuss things. When Sherlock had asked… well… demanded he do something, John would, naturally, throw a tantrum at first. When in the end, he would have, admittedly grumpily, done it nonetheless, it had always been _the_ ultimate proof for Sherlock that they were on the right track. There was no better gauge for his work… for him… than the emotional compass that was John Watson. 

However sometimes this stubbornness was exactly what stood in the man's own way. As it was right now. The almost frantic determination with which John was trying to find him, was nothing but proving Sherlock right, was confirming all his suspicions. John wouldn't let go, wouldn't accept the obvious, unless Sherlock was out of reach. Eliminated from his life. Erased. Vanished. As very vividly demonstrated by the latest events. Despite all the precautions Sherlock had taken, John had been able to track him down. He was still trying to figure out how John had done it. How had John known where and when to find him. Beneath all the embarrassment he still felt after their encounter, Sherlock couldn't help but be proud of him. His Boswell was learning. If he had succeeded to also pick up some of Sherlock's other skills, then he might be able to detach himself from the sentiment and get through the separation unharmed after all.

Aside from the awkward… no, that might not be exactly the correct term to describe that encounter… the unexpected surprise of… for fucks sake, what was wrong with him… wasn't it exactly the _essence_ of a goddamn surprise that it was _unexpected_? Jesus...

Well, after the surprise of John's presence alone, it was still a mystery to Sherlock what the man's motivation and intentions were. Yes, he was on a bloodhound-like hunt for Sherlock. That much was obvious. But after having caught Sherlock, having cornered him, having trapped him… then what? Sherlock had thought that he had made himself pretty clear. What about "go separate ways" was that difficult to understand? Why would John keep trying when Sherlock had told him repeatedly that there was nothing to gain from it. Why wouldn't he see reason? It was irritating in the extreme. Most of all because it was exhausting. Each time he had thought that he had escaped John Watson's orbit, his pull and power of attraction, that he wasn't any longer threatened to be lured in again… each time the man appeared back on the scene and was a test to Sherlock's steadfastness. It was utterly inconvenient that John Watson was the only person who had the ability to make him falter in his decisions. When all he needed in a time like this was a straight plan… how ironically fitting… without any qualms. However, John Watson being so fabulously and utterly delightfully John Watson-y made that an almost untenable task. 

What was John thinking, spying on Sherlock in such a compromising situation? Just the thought of John watching him in that state of undress made him blush furiously. Let alone imagining John witnessing the uninhibited way he had danced. It made Sherlock cringe in discomfort. Even though he _knew_ John was no mind reader, even though he _knew_ John wasn't one to notice the obvious… but the very idea of John being right there, being that close, watching him while he was… oh god, he would never be able to face him again. He would never again be able to look him straight… ha… in the eye without going up in flames right that instant by sheer embarrassment alone. 

Not that it had been his intention. Far from it. Initially he had only needed a way to come to terms with the fact that he had failed. He wasn't able to hide anymore. He wasn't able to deny it anymore. He had to admit his feelings for John, he had to face them. He had to feel the pain. Tried not to fear it. He had to acknowledge the heartbreak. He would have to live with it. There didn't exist a craftsman who would be able to fix it. He had to prepare for the loss. Because he wanted to avoid death. At all costs. 

And he had needed an outlet. Needed to get rid of the heavy cape of dirty grey sentiment that threatened to pull him down, to bury him alive. He needed to get clean. Get bare. 

He hadn't anticipated that lifting that veil would give way to all other emotions as well. The draught in his mind palace too strong, all doors and windows pushed wide open. The neatly stored away sentiment, pulled along with the air breezing through the halls and rooms, cleaning out the dust, making foul odour vanish. He hadn't been able to hold it back, to reign it in. He hadn't tried. He hadn't wanted to. But then, he had felt safe.

Seeing John there, in the flesh, when just moments before he had imagined all possible ways to lay his heart and himself bare to the very man… it had been too much. Being able to look into those ocean blue eyes in which he had imagined drowning mere moments ago, hovering above him, piercing his soul and seeing everything he desired without the need to voice it, washing wave after wave of pleasure through his body. Those hands reaching for him, which he still felt caressing his body as if they had been real. Those hands setting him on fire, stroking along his sensible flesh, were now nervously kneading the enticing soft tissue right above John's hips. Those hips that had only just done unspeakable things, in his imagination. Why must John have the habit to shift his stance when being agitated? It had only highlighted every single tempting remarkable bit hidden underneath those very unremarkable clothes. Not that the clothes had made any appearance on his mind's stage. 

So, how was he supposed to have a sensible conversation there and then? Being brutally pulled out of his reverie, still half lingering in his mind's delights, facing the object of his indecent thoughts and trying to withstand the almost unnatural gravity surrounding his… friend? 

He had been angry! With himself. For lowering his shields, for getting weak, for letting his defences slide. With John. For making it so hard for him to stay determined, for making it so hard for Sherlock to protect him, to do the only reasonable thing. Sherlock had been scared by how much he had been tempted to give in. He had been so close to making the biggest mistake of his life. 

That's why he had tried to escape the situation as quickly as possible. But even those attempts to save the last shreds of his dignity had been thwarted by an over-eager soldier doctor. It had needed some clear words from Sherlock's side and the apparent confirmation that John would _never_ initiate anything, even given the more than obvious opportunity, to make John finally step back and let him go. God, that man had already been thrown by a simple handshake. How could Sherlock presume that John would ever be willing to pursue anything more… physical? Ridiculous!

When he had finally managed to get away, he had sought shelter in one of his lesser known boltholes. He hardly ever used this one, but it would do for its current purpose. He wanted to hide, he wanted to not be found… by John. Although, he still didn't want to abandon his plans. Anything but, actually. So he had stayed put until the anticipated black sedan had pulled up to the curb right in front of his makeshift home. There was a briefing to attend after all, and if Mycroft was anything, then he was annoyingly meticulous about adhering to agreements. At least, that was what Sherlock had thought…

He was pulled back into the here and now by the clink of a saucer, belonging to a pompous tea set designed by Fortnum & Mason, on the kitchen table in front of him. Scowling, he looked down at it. 

"Mycroft. Why are we here?" He asked, irritated.

"Because we're having tea." Mycroft's unfazed answer came immediately.

"And _why_ are we having _tea_?" snarled Sherlock through gritted teeth.

"Because I prepared it." Mycroft had his back turned towards Sherlock and was drying his hands on a tea towel. 

"And why… aren't we at the briefing?" Sherlock hissed. 

"Because we're here, having tea." Mycroft didn't turn, kept drying his hand.

"And why. Are. We. Having. Tea.?" Sherlock nearly lost his temper.

"Because I prepared it." Mycroft folded the towel and put it on the kitchen counter.

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock jumped from his chair and the force of it made it tumble over and clatter on the floor. "If you don't stop this insanity right now I will…" 

Mycroft whirled around without losing an inch of his grandeur and raised his chin. "No, Sherlock, you stop it."

Sherlock started to make his way to the exit, nearly knocking his cup of tea over. "If you insist on wasting my time, I have no intention to…"

"SHERLOCK. HOLMES. You. Sit down. NOW." Mycroft's voice boomed through the kitchen. A voice that started wars, that ended them and that didn't tolerate any resistance. "Sit down and. Drink. Your. Tea." He added a bit more soothed when Sherlock didn't protest immediately. He only narrowed his eyes to slits and eyed his brother for a moment.

"Why?" was the only thing he said.

"For once in your life, Sherlock..." Mycroft said tiredly and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, "... just do as you're told." 

He raised his gaze and looked Sherlock directly into his eyes. The brothers kept staring at each other, until Sherlock quietly picked up the chair and sat back down without a word. 

Sherlock waited for some kind of explanation. To no avail. Mycroft remained silent, sat down eventually and started to slowly sip his tea. Sherlock followed suit but kept observing his brother suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. This went on until the pot of tea was almost empty and Sherlock's nerves were strained to breaking point. When Mycroft finally stood, the air in the kitchen was thick with bottled up tension.

Whatever Sherlock had anticipated, it wasn't this. Mycroft turned on the radio.

Actually, this was even scarier than the tea, because Sherlock was certain, absolutely certain, that Mycroft _never_ indulged in the profanity of common radio. Until now he hadn't even been sure whether his brother even knew how to turn on such an ordinary device… but honestly, radio? Now?

Sherlock snapped. His patience had run out.

"Mycroft, really. I don't know what got into you, but I have no time for this display of domesticity." He said while slowly standing again.

"Sherlock. Just… sit." Mycroft broke his muteness. After a short moment of hesitation he silently added, "Please."

That was what made Sherlock give in. Because… His brother never asked nicely. Not ever. 

"Why?" Sherlock tried once more, but only got a look from Mycroft, which told him not to ask again. Silence fell between the brothers and the only noise filling the kitchen was the background praise of some irrelevant radio adverts followed by a trite tune composed to please the masses. Nothing that either Sherlock or Mycroft would willingly choose for entertainment during their more than rare leisure time. Lulled by boredom, Sherlock let his thoughts roam in search for any reasonable explanation for Mycroft’s bizarre behaviour, but wasn’t able to come up with anything. 

What attracted his attention again was the sudden cheerful chatter of the presenter.

_“That was Justin Timberlake just for you, peeps. Last year's top 10 single ‘Mirrors’... show me one person who doesn’t love that number!!”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.

Female, in her late forties, attempts to appear younger, husband had been having a love affair, lover half her age, midlife crisis. New career after divorce. No kids. Now single. That would also explain the sultry and seductive voice she put on to torment her audience with. Clearly out to coax some poor lonely and needy creature into calling and chatting her up.

_“My name is Jenny, I’m your host and I will take good care of you tonight…”_

She literally purred, the last words dripping of innuendo and Sherlock shivered in disgust.

_“Now, I hope y’all won’t mind that I make an exception to my usual schedule, but I have a veeeeeery eager and… let me tell you… extremely cute from what I’ve heard so far… caller. Seems to be pretty important though from the information I got from my editors… Well, I’m intrigued...”_

There it was. Of course he had been right. As always. Even though that had been faster than even Sherlock had expected. He was close to leaving again. Only Mycroft’s stern look held him in place.

 _“So, hello there, sweetheart.”_ She purred again. _“Who are you and what can I do for you?”_ The double meaning not even remotely disguised.

 _“Uhm…”_ Came a hesitant voice over the air, followed by the clearing of a throat. _“Well, uhm… I’m John and… I’d like to send a message to… well… someone. Like this. Here.”_

Sherlock’s head snapped up and his horrified gaze was fixed on Mycroft, but the man avoided Sherlock’s eyes, which were gleaming in anger from his brother's betrayal. He wanted to leave, jump from his chair, smash the stupid radio on the floor. And Mycroft with it. How could he do this to Sherlock? Why would he?

However, his chair held him hostage. He was glued to the surface. His gaze never left his brother while the presenter chattered on, unaware of the storm her unconsidered craving for recognition left behind. 

_“Uhhhh… what sort of message will that be, John, darling? And who’s the lucky girl?”_ The dirty minded smirk was obvious in Jenny’s voice.

 _“Yeah, no…”_ John laughed insecurely. _“Nothing of the sort… well, maybe… but, no.”_

Sherlock’s eyes rolled on their own accord. If it wasn’t clear by now, this dithery stammering was confirmation enough that the caller was no other than one John Watson.

 _“I'd say… let’s just start from the beginning, alright?”_ Jenny interfered.

 _“Right. Yeah.”_ John coughed.

 _“Tell me… who’s your sweetheart and what do you want to tell her?”_ Jenny prodded again.

 _“No sweetheart… at least not yet… and no… her…”_ John deadpanned and made Sherlock’s heart stutter.

_“Well… I think that needs some explanation…”_

_“I want this to go out to… well… the most important person of my life. He’s my best friend… at least I hope he still is… and I think he’s even… more? To me at least…”_ John sounded determined but insecure.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Mycroft still avoided his gaze, leaning against the counter, watching his own feet.

 _“More? What do you mean by… more?”_ Jenny asked a bit less sweetly.

 _“You know… more!”_ John said emphatically. _“What do you think ‘more’ means?”_ He sounded slightly annoyed. _“It’s just… that’s nothing I want to spell out on the radio. I’d rather say that in person, but…”_ There was a brief pause. _“See, that’s the problem... I might never get that chance again and this is kinda my last hope and…”_ John breathed shallowly. He sounded forlorn and Sherlock’s heart clenched in his chest. Hope and horror battling for the upper hand. He didn’t dare to but also couldn’t stop to go on listening.

 _“The thing is…”_ John continued vigorously before Jenny could interrupt. _“I’ve had opportunities… plenty of them, but fucked them up…”_ A artificially shocked gasp by Jenny made John chuckle slightly. _“Okay then...I wasted them. All of them. And…”_ John inhaled sharply. _“There’s something… I should say… I meant to say, always! And then never have. Since there’s the great risk that we’ll never meet again, I might as well say it now.”_

Sherlock held his breath, watched Mycroft grinding his teeth.

 _“Wow, John. That sounds… serious.”_ Jenny sounded a bit more earnest.

 _“Yeah, well… it_ is _! At least for me! I know what I want… with him. Problem is… I still don’t know what he wants. If he even wants… anything. Whatever… Most likely not, but… I can’t ask him anymore. Can I?”_ He sounded desperate again. 

_“So, what’s the stuff you wanted to say? But didn’t say it?”_ Jenny was genuinely sympathetic now. _“Say it now.”_

 _“That’s the next problem though…”_ John huffed, a bit resigned. _“I’m reeeaaally crap with words.”_ Jenny chuckled in the background. _“And so is he, by the way.”_ John said in his own defense. _“So I’d rather… you know… there are people who are much better in telling how I feel. And I think I’ll let them do their job. But… I need him to know that I’m serious. He once asked me, if I know what I’m fighting for. And I_ do _know… now. But he also told me that I should give it up. That it’s not worth it. And I need him to know that he’s wrong! He rarely is…”_ John laughed fondly. _“But this time he_ is _!”_

 _“I must say, John. This is quite something! I hope this will all work out for you in the end. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. And I think I’m right when I say that most of the people out there… listening… will as well! So… I assume you want me to play something for you? For him?”_ Jenny started to round up the conversation.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt jittery. _‘Please, please. Keep talking. Keep him talking. Don’t end. Not yet. I’ll never hear him again. I’ll leave. Tomorrow. And never come back.’_ Because he would. Of course, he would. Because that was the plan. And nothing had changed. Because... no matter what John had to say, it wouldn’t change the fact that Sherlock would destroy it all eventually. He closed his eyes, drew a breath and listened to the last ever words he’d hear from John Watson’s beautiful mouth.

 _“Yes, indeed.”_ John said. _“I hope that he’ll understand what I want to say.”_

 _“Maybe…”_ Jenny probed carefully. _“After everything I’ve heard… perhaps you should just tell him what you want to say. Maybe it’s time to stop just hanging in there to wait and see…?”_

 _“Yeah.”_ John said quietly. Then firmer. _“Yes, of course, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Though the real thing… you know… I have to tell him in person. If he wants to, that is."_ Sherlock heard John puff his breath out through his nose, the way he always did when he decided to go into battle, when he was on a mission. _"So, what I want to say… now… is… This is me reaching out. This is me telling him I want this, I want there to be a ‘us’ again. This is me telling him… please don’t leave. I’m here, holding out my hand. And now it’s up to him to take it. I have to put this in his hands. It’s his decision now. Yeah… that.”_

 _“I have to say, John… this is… I’m glad you called. I’ve never been happier to grant someone’s wish. So, here’s your song. And… from the bottom of my heart, John… I wish you all the best!”_ Jenny said concluding the call.

 _“Thank you.”_ John breathed into the phone. _“Thanks for having me. Honestly, I really appreciate it!”_

Sherlock heard the click of the connection breaking, the first accords of the songs started playing quietly in the background. Sherlock’s throat burned from the emotions being swallowed down. His legs hurt from the forceful cramps of controlling his urge to run. His hands trembled from trying not to grasp for the razor-thin sliver of hope. 

Over the cheery tune in the background, absolutely contradicting anything Sherlock might or might not feel right now, Jenny offered some final words.

 _“Peeps, I hope this will teach you all a lesson… say what needs to be said and don’t waste too much time. You might regret it...”_ After a short moment she seemed to reconsider, inhaled and added: _“... and whoever you are, out there… think twice before you let a guy like John slip through your fingers! If you do, you’re a silly fool who doesn’t know how lucky he is to have someone love you the way John does.”_

Love! Love? She had said ‘love’... love you the way John does? Sherlock froze. Blinked. And his senses narrowed down to [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qF3KZtAuDFw%20) blaring from the kitchen radio’s speakers.

**_I'm trying to find where my place is_ **

**_I'm looking for my own oasis_ **

**_So close I can taste this_ **

**_The fear that love alone erases_ **

**_So I'm back to the basics_ **

**_I figure it's time I face this_ **

**_Time to take my own advice_ **

**_Love alone is worth the fight_ **

**_Love alone is worth the fight_ ** **  
**

‘Angel with a shotgun’... he’d said it before. He would fight for love. For Sherlock. If that’d be what Sherlock needed. Sherlock had thought it to be foolish. Nothing to fight for, because he would never have expected… could she be right? Love? John hadn’t articulated it explicitly this way though. Was there room for misinterpretation? What was more likely… that the Bit Not Good High Functioning Sociopath would be wrong in matters of … sentiment… or Lovey Dovey Flirty Jenny? But John was so… rugby… and beer… and pub… and girlfriends. A _lot_ of girlfriends. And Sherlock was so… _Sherlock_. **  
**

**_And I never thought it'd come to this_ **

**_But it seems like I'm finally feeling numb to this_ **

**_The funny thing about a name is_ **

**_You forget what the reason you were playing the game is_ ** **  
**

_‘I’m not actually gay’_ reverberated through Sherlock’s mind. _‘Well, I am. Look at us both.’_ Sherlock’s mind was spiralling. _‘The big question.’_ Why… where did that come from? _‘The two people I love most in the world’ …_ love… his mind was whirling, the mind palace in disarray… love… _‘caring is not an advantage’ ..._ a game, all of it… _‘I’m not involved’... ‘High Functioning Sociopath’... ‘Redbeard’._ **  
**

**_And it's all an illusion_ **

**_A 21st century institution_ **

**_So I'm headed down the open road unknown_ ** **  
**

The John in his head kept repeating _‘Brilliant’ … ‘Amazing’... ‘Fascinating’._ He kept insisting _‘It’s all fine!’._ He kept demanding _‘one more miracle’._ And Sherlock had heard him. He had heard him. He had let John conduct the light. He had let John punch him in the face. He had let John watch him die. Twice. _‘I’ll burn a heart out of you!’... ‘All lives end, all hearts are broken.’_ **  
**

**_And we find what we're made of_ **

**_Through the open door_ **

**_Is it fear you're afraid of?_ **

**_What are you waiting for?_ **

**_Love alone is worth the fight, woah_ **

**_Love alone is worth the fight, woah_ ** **  
**

_'Dinner? Starving!'_

_‘I don’t have friends. I just have one.’_

_‘We’re not a couple. Yes, you are.’_

_‘Nobody could be that clever. You could.’_

_‘My first and my last vow, I will always be there’_

**_We're only here for a season_ **

**_I'm looking for the rhyme and reason_ **

**_Why you're born, why you're leaving_ **

**_What you fear and what you believe in_ **

**_Why you're living and breathing_ **

**_Why you're fighting it and getting it even_ **

**_Let's go headed down the open road unknown_ **

_'So you've got a boyfriend then? I consider myself married to my work'_

_'Alone protects me. No, friends protect you.'_

_'I don't mind. Anytime.'_

**_And we find what we're made of_ **

**_Through the open door_ **

**_Is it fear you're afraid of?_ **

**_What are you waiting for?_ **

**_Love alone is worth the fight, woah_ **

**_Love alone is worth the fight, woah  
_ **

_Is_ that door still open, though? Didn't they slam it shut a thousand times? A long time ago? What was he waiting for? For the universe to stop being lazy. For the stars to align. For just one more miracle. Because John Watson loving him, wasn't merely improbable, it was impossible, so it could never be the truth. It wasn't just fear he was afraid of. It was dread. It was horror. He would never survive watching John Watson inevitably move on again. **  
**

**_Here we are, here we go_ **

**_Where the road is our own_ **

**_Hear it calling you home_ **

**_Here we are, here we go!_ **

****Home. Home was a scruffy flat. Home was no milk in the fridge. Home was two chairs in front of a hearth. Home was a boiling kettle. Home was socked feet coming down the stairs. Home was hideous jumpers. Home was grumpy swearing. Home was greying hair and bright blue eyes.

**_Love alone is worth the fight_ **

Was it?

**_Love alone is worth the fight_ **

Worth the fight?

**_Love alone is worth the fight_ **

Worth the wounds?

**_Love alone is worth the fight_ **

Worth the victims?

**_Love alone is worth the fight_ **

Worth the loss?  
  


Was it?  
  


Was it?  
  


Was it?

  
  


A gentle hand on his shoulder made him jump.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said softly, concerned. “Breathe…”

But Sherlock jerked back, scrambled to his feet, held on to the table top not to lose his balance. 

“You.” He hissed. 

He realised his breath had gone shallow. Each breath burned in his chest. He gasped for air like a drowning man. Glaring at his brother, he felt his eyes being dry and raw, his eyelids like sandpaper. He must have been booted down for quite some time then. He tried to regain some control over his body, his mind, his senses. 

“That’s...that’s all your fault!” Sherlock spat. 

“No. Not my _fault.”_ Mycroft tried to keep some composure. Stay calm. “I’d call it a favour.”

“Favour?” Like venom the word dripped from Sherlock’s lips. “You conspired. Behind my back.” Sherlock backed away, retreated from Mycroft. Like a child from a bonfire burning too bright. “We had an agreement, Mycroft. We had a _plan_.” He almost sounded whiney. He knew it. He couldn’t help it. Step by step he moved backwards. Mycroft followed hesitantly, hands raised like hushing a wild animal. “You promised to _help_ me, Mycroft. You gave me your _word_!” He raised his voice. Getting angrier by the second. “You _know_ why I wanted to do this! Why I _have_ to do this!” He shouted. “You know me! You know how I am!” He had to catch his breath. When he stopped in his tracks, Mycroft did too. Watching him. Observing him. Mycroft let him rage and yell. Never reacting. Only when Sherlock quietly asked: “Why, Mycroft? Why would you do that to me? Why increase the pain of the inevitable even more?” He saw a fog of sadness cloud Mycroft’s eyes for a moment. 

“Because, dear brother,” Mycroft said calmly, making eye contact. “I think this might be one of the rare occasions that you’re misjudging the situation tremendously.”

Sherlock huffed sharply, but Mycroft held out a hand to shush him.

“I think you might theorize without a complete set of data. Invariably, you end up twisting facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.” He said somewhat presumptuous, becoming his old pompous self again.

“Ridiculous.” Sherlock grunted dismissively. “This isn’t science!”

“Oh?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Isn’t it?”

“Stop that farce, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “This is absurd!! What would that even mean in this case?”

“That would mean, Sherlock, that you didn’t take everything into account. You told me that you can’t do things 'by halves'. That it is ‘all or nothing’ for you… That, _that_ is the reason you can’t stay. But… you never considered that there might be a choice. A real choice.” Mycroft tried to take a step towards Sherlock, but Sherlock tensed up immediately and Mycroft shied away again. “Sherlock, when it comes to John Watson you might not have to choose _'nothing'._ It might not be the sole option…” He let the words sink in. Watched Sherlock closely.

Sherlock slowly started to shake his head.

“No. Nooo. No, Mycroft. No no no no no!” He got agitated, kicked out of concept. “NO!” He whirled, slammed against the doorframe, struggled. “No. Absolutely no! No, Mycroft. No.” He angrily slammed his fist against the wall, drawing blood. Leaning heavily in the door opening, arms spread, hands braced against the frame, he let his head hang between his sagged shoulders and swallowed several times before he was able to speak again. But the only thing coming forth was a whispered “Mycroft…”

Mycroft stepped forwards, tenderly brushed some of the curls which were draping across Sherlock’s face aside and leaned down to speak quietly into Sherlock’s ear.

“Now listen to me. There’s nothing that needs your attention nor is there anywhere you need to be right now. Except home. Back to Baker Street, little brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qF3KZtAuDFw)


	14. Same Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I assumed you might appreciate knowing that my brother returned to Baker Street.” Mycroft fixed John with his eyes, examining him. He seemed to monitor John’s reaction, every expression. John tried not to let the storm of emotions show on his face, but suspected that he failed miserably. 
> 
> “You assumed damn right then.” He nodded. He set his tea cup back on the table trying to hide the tremor in his hand. “So… he… it worked then? He… he heard it?” He asked nervously. Dread and hope and embarrassment fighting and roiling in his stomach. When Mycroft only nodded slightly and no other information came forth, John frowned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend jobooksandcoffee. It wouldn't exist in the way you see here if not for her. She developed a special liking for a certain silverfox and his boat. This chapter is proof how betas can bring forth the worst (read: best) in us writers...  
> So, Jo my dear, you know you ruined me for life, right? And I'll be forever grateful for that! Love you! 💜💜💜
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

After the last note had faded John stayed on the rooftop for a moment. He sat hunched on the deck chair, knees drawn up, chin resting on his knees and let his gaze roam along the river and the banks, decorated with London typical rows of houses, the trees and meadows of the park and the occasional construction site. 

The air was soft with the first heralds of summer and the sky just on the brink of switching to dusk. London was enveloped in a cover of velvety silkyness. Painted in a soft focus and blur by the evening light.

After the call had been ended he had listened to Jenny's last words and the song he had chosen. He had imagined Sherlock somewhere, wherever he might be by now, and hopefully, but in all honesty very unlikely, listening to it, too. John just hoped that Sherlock wasn't out of the country already, sped up by their encounter at Battersea, and not even in the range of receiving the BBC anymore. Had Mycroft succeeded to trick Sherlock into listening as he had promised? Well… not really promised. But he had said, "I'll see what I can do." and that was as good as a promise in Mycroft-ish. If only Sherlock would still be available to be tricked in the first place. 

Without any possibility to be sure if his plan had worked John decided he had done everything he could. At least at this moment. He didn't dare to think of all the wasted opportunities in the past and how he could have prevented this. When he could have done something, much earlier. It would pull him down into the dark and muddy depth he tried to avoid at the moment. No benefit in looking back. Nothing that could be changed there. However the future might. Although not by waiting and hoping, but by hoping and doing. That's what he tried right now. Keeping up hope. Trying to think what else he could do. How could he contain information that would lead him to Sherlock? Would he be able to coax Mycroft into telling him? Probably not. The man had kept secrets of the kind that John probably wasn't even able to imagine. There was still Greg, who might be able to check airlines and check-ins. Maybe even international airports. Perhaps he could bring Greg to call in help from Interpol? But where to start looking? What would be Sherlock's country of choice to hide. Something far away probably. Or even exactly the opposite? Would he expect John to assume he'd go far away and stay much closer on purpose? Or was it a double bluff and he'd escape to a far away country after all because he'd have predicted that John would think that he'd think… 

John shook his head. He had to stop his spinning thoughts and try to come up with a feasible plan. Interpol or no, maybe Greg would be of help after all. At least he was company to calm John's stormy mind, he was someone to talk to. He was a friend. 

John straightened his rusty legs and stretched his stiff back and stood when he thought he was able to without pulling any muscles. He huffed a laugh when he realised the contrast to Sherlock's ability to move effortlessly as if he had found a way to circuit nature's laws. John wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if Sherlock had managed even that.

Now however he made his way downstairs into the comfortable cosiness of Greg's boat. He longed for a drink in his hand, plush sofa cushions underneath his butt and some encouraging words out of the mouth of one of the most reasonable people he'd ever met. Even if it would turn out to be a proper scolding, Greg always knew how to find the exact words John seemed to need. He was grateful for Greg's friendship. He had never expected it to get this deep. Greg had always been more Sherlock's friend. But apparently, John had put himself in Sherlock's shadow once again.

He carefully clambered down the narrow steps but stopped in his tracks the moment he was able to duck his head through the hatch into the inner room. He was greeted by two cautious pairs of eyes. He groaned. The partly embarrassed but also sympathetic gazes of his friends told him enough.

“You heard it then?” he asked unnecessarily.

“We really didn’t intend to, John! Really, you have to believe us! We don’t spy on you or anything… why would we and anyway we didn’t know and we were just…,” Molly prattled on. John only raised his hand to stop her and cringed a bit in embarrassment.

“It’s okay, Molly. I know you didn’t! And anyway… can’t be helped now, right?” He shrugged. “It’s just… I didn’t expect anyone to listen in. It’s not something one would expect me to do, right? Well, not usually…” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “But desperate times and so on…”

“No need for excuses, mate.” Greg now reassured John gently. “Pretty brave what you did there, I have to say!” He nodded in appreciation. 

“Really?” John tilted his head in disbelief.

“I’d say so, yeah.” Greg confirmed. “I just hope that silly idiot detective of yours has listened in, too! And if he has, I really hope for his own good that he’ll get up off his arse and finally does the right thing. Bloody git that he is!” Molly nudged him with her elbow in his side.

“Ow!” Greg half serious rubbed his side. “I speak nothing but the truth! And you know it, Molls!” Greg defended himself, pouting.

John frowned. _'Molls?'_ He had never heard Greg call Molly by this nickname. But then, he hadn't seen them lately. Not together at least. He had avoided their early-love-infatuation. He kept telling himself that he wanted to give them space, but in all honesty… he couldn't stand it. He looked around, took in the situation and realised _'Yep. Definitely one of the moments to avoid.'_ Although he really would have liked and needed some company tonight. 

There were vegetables spread over the kitchen counter, pots and pans on the stove. A bottle of wine opened, wine poured into two glasses. 

He finished the last remaining steps down the ladder and straightened his spine. Now, back inside, he felt the chill the evening air had left on his skin despite its summer-like disguise. He made his way over to the couch, his bag cramped next to the armrest, his makeshift home. He cringed at the thought of Greg's home being this muddled because of him. He pulled a jumper out of his bag, pulled it on and went to the door to slip into his shoes.

"Ey, what do you think you're doing?" Greg called, leaning on the kitchen counter with one hand. Molly had busied herself with slicing some courgettes.

"Uhm…" John cleared his throat, gestured to the kitchen, including food and wine and _them._ "I'll leave you to it. I don't want to impose."

"No. Stay. There's enough for the three of us." Molly said, looking up from her task.

"But I really don't want to disturb your…" John tried, a tiny bit too pleading for his own liking.

"No, you're not! Why ever would you?" Molly answered. Cheerful despite the little crinkle between her brows. She searched Greg's gaze for some help. The man caught it and hurried to reassure his friend.

"No, really John! Stay. The more the merrier, right? Wine?"

Confused, but out of options to deny, John gave in, trotted over and took a seat. 

"So, what were you two up to then?" John asked. "No saucy details, please!" He winked at Molly. She blushed furiously and her eyes widened.

"John, that's not… " she refused but was interrupted by Greg's bark of laughter. A hard slap of Greg's hand on John's shoulder told him he wouldn't get any more out of the two and saw himself confirmed when Greg shook his head.

"Not what your naughty mind comes up with, mate!" Greg still half laughed. "Sweet Molly here is determined to get some healthy food into me. Keeps telling me off for my eating habits at the Yard. She whitters on about why I don't own the donut place on the corner yet. Dunno why?" Greg said, now full on laughing again.

"Because it's true. And you know it!" Molly said fiercely, throwing a hard stare in Greg's direction. "We'll have veggie lasagna and that berk over there..." She nodded in Greg's direction. "... doesn't even know how to make a proper lasagna!" She said to John as if that was a sin in itself. "Told me that lasagna grows in the freezer of Tesco!" Despite her still berating tone there was mischief in her eyes. She winked at John and continued the preparation of the meal. “Greg Lestrade, move your lazy butt over here and help me, yeah? I’m not your housemaid, am I?” She ordered Greg around.

John watched in awe. He had never seen Molly this uninhibited, this cheerful. He had never before heard her bickering like this with anyone. The occasions he had witnessed Molly in a relationship she had been flustered and stammering and blushing and insecure. He could see none of this on her now. Greg, too, seemed relaxed and comfortable. Apparently they were really good for each other. John realised that he was glad that he had stayed. This was nothing like he had feared. The company of his friends really did him good. The tension loosened a bit and left his body. Maybe he could try to enjoy it a bit, not to think about Sherlock for at least some hours. He was not entirely sure if that would work, but he could at least try. Quiet his mind a bit. There was nothing he could do right now anyway. 

They spent the evening together, had delicious lasagna. Even Greg had to admit, although reluctantly, that it was an improvement to fish-and-chips every other day. They had fun. They laughed. They talked. About everything but one topic. And John was glad about it, thankful. He loved his friends just a little bit more for it. Only when the skies went dark like ink and the night air started to smell of the first hints of the morning dew they parted. Or rather, Molly left. The first time this evening John felt something like embarrassment creeping up. Not to accompany Molly to the door would be rude. To stand next to them saying their goodbyes would be awkward. So John was relieved when Greg just took Molly in his arms for a quick hug and gave her a little peck on her cheek. He was grateful for their considerate behaviour. Great friends indeed! 

“Be careful out there, Molls!” Greg said, sending Molly off.

“I will, Detective Inspector!” Molly said mockingly humble. Again the cheekiness that was so unfamiliar on her, John thought. “I’m not a little girl anymore and if there are any bad boys who have the bad luck to cross my way… I know where to find you, right? My personal defenders… a cop and a soldier… what else could a girl wish for.” She winked and turned to make her way home. Greg barked out a laugh and followed John back inside to close the door.

"Well… that was… unexpected." said John, yawning.

"Was it?" Greg asked incredulously. He stretched his back, yawning himself. "However, I'm off to bed now. You?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm knackered, too. Has been quite the day…" John made work of pulling the sheets over the sofa to make up his bed.

"I'd say so, yeah…" Greg agreed. "You… okay then? Should we… dunno, stay up a bit? Still some beer in the fridge…" Greg inspected his friend with concern, but John could sense the wish for a soft pillow and sweet dreams on him.

"Nah, it's alright, Greg. Tomorrow is another day, right? We both need some hours of sleep, I think." John released him from his friendship duties. Immediately Greg looked immensely grateful. "It's your day off tomorrow, right? Any plans?"

"No. Not really." Greg shook his head before grinning. "Except for sleeping in and having breakfast till noon? Nope, no plans!"

"Ha! I can live with _that_!" John agreed.

That settled, they quietly went through their—by now—evening routine. Both men left to their own thoughts.

The next morning John woke, because he felt like one of Mrs Hudson's casseroles. Wrapped and tangled in his sheets, damp from sweat, hot like coals. He muttered, cursing Greg for turning up the heaters, and tried to untangle his limbs. Kicking and pulling angrily he got aware of the bright sun shining through the windows. Directly in his face. Okay then, Greg was redeemed. But, what the hell... 

Finally up, he padded to the loo, took a quick shower and after being dressed made his way to the kitchen for his first morning coffee. It was already brewed, so Greg was already up, and when John took his first sip his eyes fell on the clock. It was late in the morning already, nearly noon, which explained the sun already being high in the sky. John also got aware of the windows being ajar and still the boat being hot like an oven. No draft, not even a bit of air moving inside the room. The weather had made good to the promise of yesterday evening's implications then. A very rare warm and bright early summer day over London. 

As John didn't see Greg anywhere inside the boat, it would be really hard to miss him in this little space though, John suspected the man to be on the terrace lazily sunbathing. He was surprised to find it empty and curiously made his way outside. No plans, Greg had said. Surely he wouldn't waste his day off on errands? Maybe meeting Molly? Or a friend? Or out with his kids? But mostly, in that case, he let John know. Just so John wouldn’t wonder. 

The moment John stepped outside, blinded by the sun the first few seconds and hit by a wall of not yet to be expected warmth, there were two things happening at the same time. From the one side a very typical three-tap-footfall made its way up the pier. On his other side he heard Greg appearing from behind the boat.

Also simultaneously the three-taps stopped abruptly while Greg cheered: "Hey old groundhog, are you finally awak…" and faltered.

John, utterly confused, looked back and forth, from right to left, to get any idea what was going on. 

He took in the unfamiliar sight of a certain Government official lacking the mandatory three-piece-suit. Still dressed impeccably, he was clad in camel linen trousers, light blue shirt with sleeves rolled up, no tie but matching waistcoat. Looking very… summerly, despite his ever present but pointless umbrella. John wondered if perhaps there were secret weapons hidden inside and if that'd be the reason why Mycroft took it everywhere. He grinned at that ridiculous thought. His attention drawn back, he realised that Mycroft was still staring, stunned. Gobsmacked really.

The sight on John's other side wasn't any less confusing. Greg, barefoot, Hawaiian-flowery shorts, upper body bare, sweaty, smeared with grease. He was wiping his hands on an oily cloth stuffed into his waistband with one corner. He looked as if he had just climbed out of the engine room, which he probably had. He, too, was eying his counterpart, scrutinising him, mouth still hanging open from stopping mid speech. Motionless apart from the still wiping hands. 

When the silence stretched and the situation started to get awkward, John cleared his throat and shifted a bit.

“Yeah, well, I’m happy to see you two, too, but… uhm, can anyone enlighten me what’s going on here?” He even waved a hand to snap the two men out of their hypnosis.

Greg, embarrassed, rubbed the back of his neck and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. The grease on his hands, still not fully absorbed by the cloth, didn’t help his appearance one bit. It made his hair messily stick in all directions. 

“Sorry, I was… I thought I’d make use of the nice weather and… the boat, you know, have to keep up, needs a lot of maintenance…,” he rambled. Still not looking at John.

John was furrowing his brows, squinting his eyes. Bewildered. He then turned to the other man. Not less wary.

“And you, Mycroft… What are _you_ doing here? To what do we owe the honour of your visit? No mysterious cars? No minions?”

"I'd rather we discuss that in private." The man finally tore his gaze away to look at John. Before John could react he heard Greg intervene again. God, what got into these two today? John turned again, annoyed like a preschool-teacher.

"Right. Get it. Overstayed my welcome… in my own home. Haha." Greg joked, rubbing his neck again. Was he straightening his spine and pulling in his stomach? Greg? Puffing out his chest? Really? "I'll just go take a quick shower then, yeah? Won't be long…" All that still not said to John. No. Mycroft even nodded in confirmation. John couldn't believe his ears and eyes. He felt invisible. He could just as well have stayed in bed, do belly dancing, turn into a Hobbit or vanish… the two men wouldn't care less. He huffed a laugh. Still smiling he shook his head.

Only when Greg had disappeared inside, Mycroft blessed John with some attention. He cleared his throat, twice, then looked at his probably unaffordable cognac-colored nubuck leather loafers to regain some composure before looking up. 

"I'm not here on my own behalf, John." he said quietly.

At those words John felt a knot in his stomach uncoil, a quiver, which he didn't really trust. He didn't want it to be hope in case Mycroft was about to reveal disappointing news. He didn't want it to be dread, because he didn't want to lose hope. Although there was one thing he was certain of. Mycroft would only come all the way to the pier, and apparently on one of his less official days judging by his attire, if it was important. The only important thing between Mycroft and him though was Sherlock. 

"Let's take this inside, shall we?" John said a bit unsteady. He felt his heart beat in his throat. 

"Sounds like a reasonable plan." Mycroft nodded. 

John led the way, Mycroft in his wake. John was fidgety, didn't know what to do with himself. So he did the first thing that came to mind. Tea.

"Take a seat. Sofa, kitchen, doesn't matter. Get comfortable." He instructed Mycroft while he walked over to the kitchen area. Only when he poured the second cup of tea and wondered if Greg would like one too, he started to question what he was actually doing. Tea? Seriously? Outside nearly tropical temperatures—at least for London standards—and John Watson was preparing tea? He decided, yes, tea was good. Tea calmed the nerves, tea was something to hold on to. And that was something he desperately needed right now. So, tea it was. While he carried the tea cups, sugar and milk and some leftover and hopefully still a bit crunchy biscuits over he took in the sight of Mycroft Holmes sitting on the hastily made up sofa with still rumpled cushions, looking absolutely out of place and a bit lost. John suppressed a chuckle. So, the untidy place of a middle aged bachelor was the weapon against Mycroft’s snootiness? A pity that apparently his brother's flat didn’t have the same effect. Brotherly resentment won over discomfort. 

“Help yourself.” John said while setting one of the cups in front of Mycroft. “I’m not going to be mother for you.” He added and, as he had hoped, Mycroft picked up on the reminder of Sherlock’s and his visit to Buckingham palace. 

“Well, I think we’d both find that embarrassing.” Mycroft threw him a little smirk.

While they saw to their own respective beverages in silence, they were reminded of Greg’s presence by the background sound of splashing water and the man's cheerful whistle and singing. Now and then Mycroft threw uneasy glances the way of the little bathroom and when John after a while turned slightly to check for the reason, he realised that the narrow folding door was left ajar. Not as much to be indiscreet but enough to let the noise and bit of steam carry unhindered into the sitting room area. John was slightly annoyed and a bit taken aback by his friend's thoughtlessness and felt a bit embarrassed on his behalf. When the moment stretched on like this, he felt the time tick by and their chance to talk in private slink. John cleared his throat, no longer able to reign in his nervous impatience.

“So… what can I do for you, Mycroft?” He pulled Mycroft’s attention back from the distraction of the bathroom door.

“Well…” Mycroft also cleared his throat, took a sip of tea before continuing. “I assumed you might appreciate knowing that my brother returned to Baker Street.” He fixed John with his eyes, examining him. He seemed to monitor John’s reaction, every expression. John tried not to let the storm of emotions show on his face, but suspected that he failed miserably. 

“You assumed damn right then.” He nodded. He set his tea cup back on the table trying to hide the tremor in his hand. “So… he… it worked then? He… he heard it?” He asked nervously. Dread and hope and embarrassment fighting and roiling in his stomach. When Mycroft only nodded slightly and no other information came forth, John frowned. 

“But… why come here to tell me in person?” He asked suspiciously. “Why not… dunno… text? As you usually do? Don’t you have better things to do?” 

Mycroft looked at him, his expression saying enough. No, at this point there was nothing more important to him than Sherlock. John could trace a shimmer of worry and protectiveness on 'big brother's' face. One of the kind that could only be caused by two years of fear and helplessness and guilt. John could relate only too much. He knew this feeling by heart.

“He posed one condition for abandoning his ridiculous plans and going back to Baker Street. I’m here to carry out his wish.” He said and grabbed the small briefcase he had brought. “He was very firm in his request that it has to be me to hand this over. Although you should know that I have no awareness of the contents. And I felt no need to find out although I could have done it easily.” He gave John a look over his non-existent glasses. He pulled out a creamy white envelope of certainly pretty expensive heavyweight paper and handed it over to John. “I think this should stay between the two of you.” He added. “I sincerely hope that things will turn out in your favour, John. As sceptical as I have been for a long time, Doctor Watson, by now I dare to believe that you’re rather the making of my brother. You bring out the best in him. Even though ‘the best’ isn’t what I thought it might be for a long time.” He looked thoughtfully. “But in this case I’m grateful to be proven wrong.” 

John didn’t miss the fact of Mycroft switching in his form of address, but couldn’t shake the feeling that it only made the serious words even more meaningful. He swallowed hard, never having received this much appreciation by Mycroft Holmes. He was baffled and lost for words. As in slow motion he accepted the envelope, and was surprised by its weight. By now he couldn’t hide the shaking of his hands any longer and didn’t want to. Mycroft would have picked up on his tension and anxiety anyway. Also, the man had been on the forefront of everything that had happened during the last weeks, there was little that still needed to be hidden. And wasn’t that the whole point? Not to hide any longer? Wasn’t that what he had fought for? To accept and express and cherish openly from now on? 

His heart threatening to jump right out of his chest he held the envelope and looked at Mycroft, let him see, let him know. He needed the man to understand what this meant to him. When Mycroft gave him a small nod he knew the message was received. 

This was the moment Greg chose to pull the door of the bathroom open in a flourish and parade into the living room covered only by a towel slung snuggly around his hips.

Both men on the sofa jumped. They had totally forgotten about the presence of another person, too engulfed in the moment. 

"Sorry, guys," Greg said, toweling his short grey hair with one hand. "Seems I have forgotten my change of clothes."

John stopped mid-motion at his sight. What the… What had gotten into his friend? Something like this had never happened before during the weeks of their living arrangement. Greg had always been more than careful and respectful of John's boundaries concerning privacy. And they were mates. Whereas Mycroft… 

Said man next to John was caught in a cough fit. Apparently he had tried to take a sip of tea the moment he had caught sight of Greg. His face was beet red and he had tears streaming down his face. John looked concerned at him, but he already seemed to recover a bit. Greg on the contrary, instead of hastening to his bedroom to dress, hurried over and crouched… crouched of all things, in nothing but a towel… next to Mycroft.

"Hey, you alright?" He put a hand on Mycroft's knee and kneaded it slightly. John could only watch dumbfounded when Greg even reached around Mycroft to slap him slightly on the back. John felt the urge to stop him. Being a doctor he knew all too well that it not only didn’t help but could make things even worse. But he couldn't move. He didn’t even know where to look, what to say, how to find the right words.

Mycroft had his eyes squeezed shut and his face was still an interesting shade of red. When he calmed down a bit, Greg stood again and looked down at Mycroft, his hands stemmed into his sides, frowning. After a few more coughs and downing his tea Mycroft looked up, embarrassment clearly written over his face. He winced and opened his mouth, obviously to offer any kind of excuse, but the moment his eyes met Greg’s, no words did come out. For a moment there, John felt reminded of the situation on the porch with the two men ignoring him. When Mycroft’s gaze started roaming over Greg’s body, still damp from the shower, drops of water still clinging to his skin, some slowly sliding down his neck, shoulders or biceps, others meandering their way between softly defined pecs downwards over a not quite muscled but nonetheless fit and trim middle, John actually had to avert his eyes because he felt like an intruder. His eyebrows raised till under his hairline and his mouth pulled into an unbelieving grin. He shook his head. A high pitched chuckle escaped him, which seemed to shake the other two men out of wherever they had drifted off to. 

“Uhm…,” and nothing more, Greg said eloquently. When Mycroft didn’t contribute anything either, only tried to regain his composure and fix his facial expressions, Greg took a step back, waved a hand in the direction of the bedroom door and said, just as articulate as before, “Then I’ll... clothes…,” and left. 

John looked at Mycroft with an inquiringly raised eyebrow, but Mycroft picked up where they had left as if nothing had happened. Yet, the atmosphere in the room had shifted and wasn’t in the slightest as laden as before, for which John was actually grateful. Mycroft stroked his hand palms over his thighs as if to flatten out non-existing crinkles in his trousers. A clear sign he intended to end the conversation and leave. Suddenly John felt a strange kind of nervousness bubble up, like the fine fizz of ginger beer that made throat and nose tingle. When Mycroft left he would be alone with the letter. He still didn’t know and didn’t dare to speculate what it contained. Somehow this letter felt crucial and opening it like a milestone. When Mycroft left, John couldn't stretch the moment any longer, his own responsibility to open the letter at some point. He had to admit, he was afraid of what it might contain. Opening it felt like a step of no return. He didn't want to waste any precious time but he also didn't want to end what hadn't even started yet any earlier than necessary. 

Procrastinating any longer would be embarrassing so John raised to his feet and with it prompted Mycroft to do the same. The blink and you'll miss it glance towards the bedroom door didn't escape John's notice though. Mycroft tugged on the seam of his waistcoat to straighten it and raised his chin. _'Back in character then',_ John thought. He even held out a formal hand and took John's when offered.

"I hope, whatever is in that letter, my brother has thought it through well." he said, while shaking John's hand. "If you're ever in need of help, you know where to find me." He nodded, took his briefcase and went to the door.

The bedroom door was ripped open and Greg came out, hopping on one foot trying to pull on one of his trainers on the other foot.

"Are you… You're leaving already?" He asked slightly out of breath.

"Indeed. That was my intention. I took care of what I came for, now I'll have to see to my other duties." Mycroft delivered coolly.

"Ah, well, that's a pity…" Greg straightened, hummed, looked at Mycroft with his head tilted.

Mycroft turned towards him with a curious glint in his eyes. _'Here we go again.'_ John thought. 

"How so?" Mycroft asked. Apart from his eyes nothing was giving away anything out of the ordinary. 

"Well, I had hoped to introduce you to my roof terrace, maybe…" Greg answered and John sensed the teasing undertone. "I could get us some… donuts, for starters." Greg smirked and it made the skin around his eyes crinkle in glee. Even John had to admit that Greg was a handsome man, although he had never felt anything but camaraderie for his mate. Surprisingly though, Mycroft seemed to think differently.

"Much to my regret I have to decline." Mycroft said. "This time." He added nonchalantly, looking at Greg.

"Oh," Greg's face lit up. "Right. Right! Ha!" He grinned brightly now. "Then I'd say, if you ever feel the need to take care of something again… you know where to find me. And my boat." One quick twitch with his eyebrow underlined the saucy innuendo and Mycroft's face changed colour again.

"I do, indeed." Mycroft answered and John wondered how such innocent words could sound that indecent. John hoped for the ground to open up and swallow him, when Mycroft added as if John wasn't even in the room: "I hope, by then, you'll have finished your efforts to make your boat… steadfast." Mycroft made it sound like a challenge which Greg immediately picked up on. John felt like watching a match of ping pong.

"You bet, I will!" He retorted, shifting his stance. Mycroft only smiled almost non-visible, but it was making his eyes shine nonetheless. He gave the tiniest of nods in Greg's direction.

"Gregory." He said calmly as farewell.

"Mister Holmes." Greg countered impishly, obviously enjoying himself.

Mycroft turned again towards John, much more serious but more amicably than ever before. "John." He nodded as a short greeting and left.

A moment of silence fell in the room before John turned on his heels, stared at his friend, eyes big like saucers.

"Gregory Lestrade." He shouted. "What. The. Hell. Was. THAT?"

"Well. That was Mycroft Holmes." Greg shrugged. "Thought you'd recognise him." He added and winked at John. "Do you think he'd be amenable to have dinner sometime?"

"Dinner?" John squeaked. "You know 'dinner' is code, right?" John laughed. Greg frowned.

"You and Sherlock have dinner all the time though…," Greg deadpanned, which made John cough in response.

"That's different…," he managed between coughs.

"How so?" Greg inquired, eyebrows raised. Suddenly John went serious, cough over as quick as it had started. The two of them were looking at each other in silent communication.

"What's he brought for you then?" Greg asked tentatively. 

"Sherlock. He's back. At Baker Street." John swallowed.

"He's brought you Sherlock?" Greg's eyes gleamed in mockery.

"You… berk!" John exclaimed, but laughed, actually grateful for the tension to be defused. "No, he brought me something. Sent by Sherlock." John tipped his chin in the direction of the coffee table. Greg looked over and back at John. 

"What's in it?" He asked.

"Don't know yet." John shrugged. Now it was Greg's turn to shout.

"You serious?" He looked incredulously at John. "Why didn't you open it? What's keeping you?"

"You." John said plainly. Greg barked a laughter, came closer and slapped a hand affectionately on his shoulder. 

“On you go then, I don’t want to stand between you and happiness.” He said.

“Well, to be honest, that’s the other thing that’s keeping me…” John looked at his feet. “Don’t know yet what to expect.”

“Oh.” Was the only thing Greg responded.

“Yep.” John popped the P like Sherlock loved to do and felt a pleasant and at the same time painful tug in his gut at that reminder.

“You never had that tea, did you?” Greg suddenly changed topic. John looked up and his eyes fell on his still full cup, now gone cold.

“Seems like it.” He nodded.

“Still wanna have some? I’ll set the kettle…,” Greg was already on his way, apparently trying to find something to comfort John.

“No! No…,” John hurried to say to keep Greg from his efforts. “Was ridiculous anyway with this weather…”

“Didn’t want to say it, mate, but now you mention it…,” Greg teased again. God, John was so grateful for Greg being in his life. That man really had kept him sane the last weeks. He could see more and more the reason why it was Greg who had been the only person to handle Sherlock in his early days of consulting for the Yard. Maybe even the only person who ever would have gotten him so far in the first place. 

“I’d prefer something much more... beer-y.” Greg interrupted his musings, already rummaging in the fridge. “Like… for example…,” his head popped up from behind the fridge door, a triumphant smile on his face, “Beer!” He held up two bottles clasped in one hand.

“You serious?” John wrinkled his brow. He gazed over at the clock. “Now? It’s only… just past noon!”

“So?” Greg asked innocently. John just huffed. “My thoughts exactly…,” Greg cheered.

They settled on the roof terrace under a sun sail Greg had installed. Lying on the deck chairs, sipping their beer, they enjoyed a companionable silence. The temperature was much more bearable up here, John started to relax. He let his thoughts wander and suddenly frowned. He turned his head to look at his friend.

“But… what about Molly?” He asked, a bit sceptical now. How could John not have thought about her until now? He knew exactly why though. He had been too perplexed. Not that he had any problems with it, but seeing Mycroft Holmes in such a state of agitation had been an experience on a heretofore wholly unknown level. And Greg? Flirting this boldly? Above all, with… well… _Mycroft_ of all people. It would have never occurred to him before.

“What about her?” Greg asked without any trace of guilt.

“Uhm… I thought… weren’t you two… together?” John asked, confused. Greg turned his head, looked at John.

“We? No! Thought you’d have caught up on that. Well… too occupied with your own stuff I guess, huh?” He waved off John's concerns. “Nah, we both—pretty quickly—came to the conclusion that we’re better off as friends. Don’t get me wrong… in the beginning there definitely was the intention for more, but… now we got at least this out of it, right? She's a great friend!” 

“But… why?” John was still puzzled. They had both seemed so… blown away by each other. John had to confess though—due to his own troubles, Greg was right—that it had been at Barts that he had last seen them together. Before yesterday. And he had just assumed. Apparently, he wasn’t very good at that. Assuming. Maybe he should stop doing it.

“Just wasn’t 'It' in the end. No hard feelings though. We’ve totally been on the same page there. She said I wouldn’t be psychopathic enough for her taste…” Greg crinkled his nose, apparently still baffled. “And for me… I mean, she’s lovely but… a bit too lovely? If you get what I mean… She’s so sweet and nice and always… good.” Greg shrugged one shoulder apologetically. "I realised I need a bit more… snark in my life.” He laughed. “A bit more headwind. If you get me…”

“Oh… you’re totally at the right address now then.” John laughed now, too. 

“I think you can relate, can’t you?” Greg winked. John pulled a face in confirmation, no words needed. And suddenly, the elephant in the room was back and the mood shifted. Thoughts once again drifting, pulled inevitably to his pole of attraction, his sun around which he was orbiting without escape. 

As if Greg had sensed it, he reached over to softly squeeze John’s shoulder.

“You just enjoy this now for a moment. And afterwards, I'll leave you to your letter.” He said quietly. Earnestly. “I’ll be right down there if you need me, yeah?”

John felt like a little child, soothed by his mom because he had to lie alone in the dark while a storm was roaring outside the house. But he realised that this was precisely what he needed. Why Greg's wife had left him was a mystery to John. This man was Mr. I-support-you. 

John nodded in agreement, closed his eyes and let the dancing shadows behind his eyelids lull him into a state of contentment. At some point he heard Greg getting up, picking up their, by now, empty bottles and climbing down the stairs, only to come back up and set a full bottle of beer on the floor next to John with a thud. 

"Thanks, mate." John mumbled and revelled some more in the peaceful quiet in his head. 

When he popped his eyes open again, Greg was gone and the creamy white envelope was in his place on the deck chair. John watched it. And watched some more. And finally came to the conclusion, that the moment had come. 

He reached over and inspected it. No writing, no other marks, just the thick paper with a watermark John didn’t recognise. He pulled the lit open and took out two sheets of paper. A letter then. He unfolded it. His heart made a flip at the sight of the scribbled words. The man who had written them felt much nearer like this. Sherlock felt within reach again. He took a deep breath and began reading.

> _John,_
> 
> _You wouldn’t be reading this letter if you wouldn’t by now have received the notice that I succumbed to your request and my brother’s irritating demand and refrained from leaving the country._
> 
> _You must be aware though that I didn’t make this decision lightly. It still contradicts what I deem necessary, if not vital, but leaving didn’t seem right anymore either. You see, this puts me in a precarious and quite disconcerting situation._
> 
> _Although I’m not opposed to continuing our acquaintance I’m not yet sure how much I’ll be able to contribute, to give. At this point it is crucial that you understand that this has absolutely nothing to do with the value you have in my life. I meant every word I ever said or wrote regarding this topic. You are_ _— and I think it is safe to say it at this point_ _— the most important person in my life. As much as this means to me it also presents the main problem. _
> 
> _And here, I suspect, I failed to convey the message I was trying to bring over for the last couple of weeks, if not months. You still don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you and for me it is of utmost importance that you comprehend my motives._
> 
> _Therefore I think I found a way now_ — _as we are apparently expressing the more sensible subjects of our connection by means of music lately_ _— to make myself clearer. Considering that words failed me most of the time I make use of the capability of a person more skilled than me. I feel no need to provide the instrumental accompaniment as the words contain the essential message. But considering that you’ve always been a romantic you are of course free to listen to it anyway. _
> 
> _That said I have nothing more to add and thus hope that Mr. Blunt will be able to achieve what I didn’t._
> 
> _It has never been about what I wanted._
> 
> _Yours, always,_
> 
> _Sherlock_

**  
  
**

Well, that wasn’t exactly what John had expected, let alone hoped for. It was neither of the two options he had considered. He was left on the no-mans-land anywhere in between. That was also the reason why his tension hadn’t faded in the slightest yet. Everything was still open, nothing certain, John still left in the dark. He felt a shimmer of annoyance, even anger, rising at the horizon of his emotions. Why would Sherlock leave them in the same place they had been in before? Why leave them in the same vagueness of everything and nothing? What had all of this been for then? 

John had to actively calm down. Sherlock had also said that he wasn’t able to express what he wanted to say. So maybe John didn’t have all the facts yet to draw a conclusion. Wasn’t that what Sherlock kept saying. So John braced himself and turned the page to look at the words Sherlock hadn’t been able to say himself.

It was a printout. The lyrics in printed characters, neatly arranged. Despite his nervousness a fond smile spread on his face when he saw that Sherlock had scribbled notes and additions all over the page. ‘ _Yeah, sure, nothing to add,’_ John thought amused, affectionate. _‘You always have to have the last word, right?’_

John hesitated if he should listen to [the song](https://youtu.be/yZszgqqJOdI) or not, but decided against it for now. If Sherlock wanted him to only read it, he would do so. For now. He could still listen to it later. And he started reading...

**  
  
  
**

**_Same Mistake_**

**  
  
  
**

**_Saw the world turning in my sheets_**

**_And once again, I cannot sleep_**

**_Walk out the door and up the street_**

**_Look at the stars beneath my feet_**

**_Remember rights that I did wrong_**

**_So here I go  
  
_** ****

**_Hello, hello_** ** _._** _(← ridiculous! Ignore that!)_

**_There is no place I cannot go_** _(don’t you think I’ve thought all options through? Thoroughly?)_

**_My mind is muddy but_**

**_my heart is heavy. Does it show?_**

**_I lose the track that loses me,_** _(I had a plan, John. What do I have now? I don’t know where to go from here on. There are no road signs pointing the right way. No map. Who’d travel without a map, John?)_

**_so here I go  
  
_**

**_And so I sent some men to fight,_** _(I’ve already tried so many of those options. They’ve all gone wrong. I did try John. I tried to fight!)_

**_and one came back at dead of night_**

**_Said he'd seen my enemy._**

**_Said he looked just like me_**

**_So I set out to cut myself_** _(I tried, John, I tried! But I’m weak. Forgive me.)_

**_and here I go  
  
_** ****

**_I'm not calling for a second chance_**

**_I'm screaming at the top of my voice_**

**_Give me reason, but don't give me choice_**

**_Cause I'll just make the same mistake again  
  
_**

**_And maybe someday we will meet_**

**_And maybe talk, and not just speak_**

**_Don't buy the promises, cause_**

**_There are no promises I keep_**

**_And my reflection troubles me_** _(Do you understand, John? It’s never been you! It has always been me!)_

**_So here I go  
  
_**

**_I'm not calling for a second chance_**

**_I'm screaming at the top of my voice_**

**_Give me reason, but don't give me choice_**

**_'Cause I'll just make the same mistake_**

**_I'm not calling for a second chance_**

**_I'm screaming at the top of my voic_**

**_Give me reason, but don't give me choice_**

**_'Cause I'll just make the same mistake again  
  
_**

**_Saw the world turning in my sheets_**

**_And once again, I cannot sleep_**

**_Walk out the door and up the street_**

**_Look at the stars_**

**_Look at the stars fall down_** _(I can’t risk that. You’re ridiculously obsessed with them. I can’t risk them to fall down. I can’t. Not them.)_

**_And wonder where_**

**_Did I go wrong?_**

**  
  
  
**

_‘What. The. Fuck.’_ thought John. How was this supposed to explain anything? The sheet in his hands trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shake someone. Preferably Sherlock. He wanted to yell. _‘Tell me what you want. I’m no fucking mind reader. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?’_ But he couldn’t, could he? Sherlock had said that this was what he couldn’t express himself. That he needed John to understand it. But he didn’t! A wave of helplessness and frustration threatened to sweep him away. However, he had to do this. For Sherlock. For them. He had to try. _‘As usual you see but you do not observe!’_ he heard Sherlock tell him in his mind. 

So he read it again. And again. 

And each time he read it he noticed something different. 

_‘So here I go’... ‘I’_ he thought. The distinction to the song he played for Sherlock on the radio blatant. _‘Here we are, here we go!’_ it had been. And John had meant it. Did Sherlock mean it, too?

 _‘My heart is heavy’..._ mine, too, Sherlock! Then why? Why not help it?

 _‘Who’d travel without a map, John?’_ John thought about their chases through London, about stakeouts, about following a hound through unknown woods. _‘You would!’_ he thought. _‘You would. Why not now?’_

 _‘Forgive me.’_ Forgive me? For what? For cutting yourself off of me? Why would I? For failing to cut yourself? Why ever would I?

 _‘I’m not calling for a second chance, I’m screaming at the top of my voice’_ Then why not take it. I’m right here Sherlock! I’ll give you all the chances you'll need. JUST TAKE IT! WHY DON’T YOU?

John felt tears of frustration well up, blurring his sight. Tears of helplessness. Tears of trepidation. Tears of heartache. 

_‘Give me reason’ …_ If my love isn’t reason enough, then what is? If I’m not enough. There’s nothing more that I have to give. I’d give it all. If it would only be reason enough for you!

John let himself fall back on the deckchair. the sheets resting on his chest, still in a tight grip, he looked at the sky and the trees and the houses and the people walking by in the distance and everything felt far away from his own reality. He concluded, this couldn’t be it. He still didn’t understand. He wouldn’t stop until he did. He wanted to understand. 

In the end, he decided to listen to the song after all. He looked it up, started it and read once again. 

And suddenly everything fell into place. Reason. Give me reason. How could he have been so blind? This was Sherlock. Sherlock! And Sherlock didn’t need a reason for anything he wanted to do. But what he needed was… reason! Intellect. Mind. Rationality. Logic. Reliability. Facts.

John sat up. Realisation hit him with a force that knocked the air out of his lungs.

Sherlock was afraid. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/yZszgqqJOdI)


	15. I Won't Give Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was standing at the window again. Observed the long shadows, only the rooftops still bathed in sunlight, people now wearing cardigans or light jumpers. Mrs Hudson watching one of her pre prime time series. The smell of something oven baked hanging in the air. How long had they been on the phone? It hadn't felt that long. But then, time never felt long when spent with John Watson. Actually, it never felt long enough.
> 
> John was right. He always was. Boring! Except, it really wasn't. Nothing about John Watson was boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,  
> your loyalty and love for this fic means the world to me and is keeping me floating in a world weighing on all our shoulders! I hope you're all still safe and well and bear up as good as possible through these challenging times!! <3<3<3
> 
> Your patience with these two Idiots is finally paying off as they're finally (slowly) getting there! Hallelujah!
> 
> I want to send a lot of extra-love to my two betas and dear friends who hold my hand, nudge me in the right direction and, if needed, give me a kick up my arse in moments of loveis-typical confusion and panic! You two are the best and please know that wouldn't be able do this without you! I love you 3000!!!
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

He told himself he didn't wait. It would be ridiculous. To wait. He did it anyway. 

He wondered if the annoying moron who was his brother had already handed over the letter. He wondered if John had already read the letter. It was just past noon. So, could be. But maybe not. 

He was restlessly pacing the living room of 221B. Occasionally interrupted by Mrs Hudson's fussing. 

When he had returned in the early morning hours she had already been up. The moment he had opened the front door, the door to her flat had flown open and the woman herself had stared at him in disbelief. Her mood had shifted that fast between anger and relief that it almost gave Sherlock whiplash. She had stalked up to him, slapped him forcefully on his chest only to hug him immediately afterwards. She had stared daggers at him while pulling him along into her flat, holding him by his hand. 

"Will you never—not EVER—do that again, young man?!" she had scolded him while pushing him into one of the chairs at her kitchen table. "If I have to get _one more heart attack_ over you…," she had carried on to tell him off while tenderly stroking loose curls from his forehead.

Sherlock had paled, eyes widened.

"You… had a heart attack?" his voice had betrayed him, getting unsteady. "Why are you… how… I mean…”

"Don't be silly, love." she had turned her back on him and had busied herself with the kettle. She had looked over her shoulder at him, berating him like a little schoolboy. "You know perfectly well that it takes more to bring me down, to give me a _literal_ heart attack. But serves you right to get a fright over it!" She had torn open a package of Hobnobs and nothing but dumped them on a small plate. She had brought the plate over to where Sherlock was sitting and had plonked it on the table. Hands stemmed angrily on her hips she had stood in front of Sherlock, far too close, and had looked down at him. Sherlock had felt the actual urge to stoop and retreat. The usually tiny fragile woman had turned into a dragon. She was fire. She was death.

Without any shift in her tone—at least not to the friendlier side of the spectrum—she had gone on giving him a wigging.

"Ohhh… if I didn't love you so much, you foolish boy, I'd pull your ears and tie them under your chin!" she had snarled. “Drink your tea, young man. You look horrible!” She had nudged Sherlock’s cup a bit closer. “And that’s not negotiable! It’s an order!” 

When she hadn’t avoided her furious gaze, Sherlock had felt obliged to take a sip and had had to confess that it was comforting. A small sigh had escaped him, feeling a little bit more content and warm and… home. 

Mrs Hudson had shaken her head and had donned her dragon persona. She had sat on her chair across the table and had looked sorrowful at Sherlock.

“Why can’t you boys take a bit more care of yourselves?” she had mumbled. “Poor John looked even worse.”

“John?” Sherlock had choked. 

“Yes. The lovely doctor who used to live here. Remember him?” she had responded, unflinching, which had been even worse than her anger. Sherlock had lowered his cup and used it as an excuse to lower his gaze as well. 

“You’ve seen him?” he had asked, voice small, nervous. 

“Of course I’ve seen him, you silly.” And back had been her anger. “In contrast to some other people, _he_ was searching and waiting and hoping.” She had scowled. “So sad that he moved out.” 

Sherlock had felt a pang in his heart. ‘Moved out’ was like ‘broken up’, wasn’t it? It was permanent and definite. Sherlock knew what ‘broken up’ meant. He had texted John once, for a case, to ask. John had been very clear in his answer. Mostly ‘to move out’ meant ‘to break up’ with someone. Although, of course there had never been anything to 'break up' in the first place. So why mourn the 'break up' of something that had never had the chance to be 'broken up' and never will get that chance. But then, John had signaled his interest to stay in contact with Sherlock… in which ever way. Sherlock still couldn’t wrap his head around it. Sherlock was confused like seldom before. John had moved out which didn't mean a break up in this case as there had been nothing to break up, but now John wanted to have such a thing and wanted to be with Sherlock? Just maybe, not as flatmates? Nothing of that made sense, Sherlock's mind reeled and made him nauseous. Didn’t John consider Baker Street as his home anymore. Did he already have a different living arrangement?

As if on cue Mrs Hudson had said, “He is visiting me regularly. It’s never long though, I keep telling him that he doesn’t bother me, but he doesn’t want to hear about it. I’m still not sure where he’s staying.” She had raised her eyes, full of hope. “Do you…” But Sherlock had shaken his head without a word before she had even been able to finish her question. He had seen the disappointment clouding her gaze. “Will he…” she had tried, but again Sherlock had shaken 'no' as quickly as possible to stop her from continuing. He couldn’t stand to hear his own failures voiced out loud, mixed with unspoken accusations, followed by inevitable disappointment. He was already fretting enough about that all by himself, thank you very much. No need to add fuel to the fire. 

“What is it with you young folks these days?” Mrs Hudson had continued in a much smaller voice, “why not grab what is right in front of you?”

Sherlock had lowered his head, clenched his jaw.

She had reached over and covered one of his large hands with her small and fragile one, skin crinkled and dotted with aging spots. He had watched how her thumb painted tiny circles on his palm.

“Don’t make the same mistake again, Sherlock.” she had added firmly. Sherlock had winced, tried to pull back his hand, but Mrs Hudson had only held it even tighter in her strong grip. She had squeezed his hand, searched for his gaze. When he had finally raised his eyes to meet hers, he had been overwhelmed by the amount of affection they held. 

“How does one do that?” he had whispered.

“By not doing it again,” was all she had responded. Sherlock had held her gaze. She had nodded slightly, putting a question into that tiny movement, which had required confirmation before she would let go of his hand. Sherlock had struggled, squirmed inside, and when he finally had nodded back it had been without being convinced of its sincerity. 

Sherlock was certain that she had seen right through him, but he had been dismissed anyway. 

Since that moment he was _not_ waiting. He had even put away his clothes at some point. _Definitely_ didn't count as waiting. And he had taken a shower. Also not waiting. Maybe he had also had some tea with Mrs Hudson? Not sure. He couldn't remember. That wouldn't be considered waiting either, would it? Which actually didn't matter because he _didn't_ wait. Why would he? He had made it unmistakably clear in his letter that he couldn't give John back what he apparently seemed to want. Sherlock still couldn't fathom it. 

That it truly had been John on the radio. That John would tell the whole world… well, half of Britain… about his feelings. For Sherlock. After the horrible day when John had found him at Battersea, he had to admit that there had been signs. Now in retrospect, maybe… just maybe… Sherlock had seen, but not observed. John had tried to get in contact. Only, Sherlock hadn't realised the depth of John's affection.

Now he knew, did it change anything? Apart from making his own misery even worse? Now he knew what was on offer, what he had to reject? This wasn't about a convenient and additionally comfortable flat-share anymore. Not just about a friendship. Not even about a best friendship at that. No, he had to reject the one thing he wanted most in the world. The person he wanted most. John. 

Sherlock just hoped John had understood his letter. How could Sherlock balance to say 'No' when all he wanted was 'Yes'? How could he avoid hurting John when he had to reject him? He had had his chance to make a clean cut. They mostly heal better than wounds torn open over and over again. John was a doctor. He should know that. 

However, he had to make the best of it now. He knew he wouldn't get another chance to get away. He had to face it, he had to bear it, he had to figure out how to live with it. He had to admit though… he was glad. He didn't like that he was, but… he was. Who wouldn't be if the alternative would have been a John-less life?? But it was selfish. Sherlock hated himself for it. To be happy about putting John at risk. 

He had to make John understand that Sherlock was a danger to him. He had to make John see him for who he really was. What he did. How could John possibly love and live with a selfish, self-destructive, John-destructive, spineless addict? He had nothing to give. All he ever did was take. He was a vile taker... He didn't want to be the vampire that sucked all life out of John. 

That's why he didn't wait. Because, why would John come anyway? Would he come though? Did Sherlock want him to come? No, because… what would he say? Yes, because…. yes! Because John! 

It was all so damn confusing. Sherlock's mind was in disarray. He'd never be able to find his words in this state. He never was. That was the whole John-problem. Because this was his John-state. That was what John Watson did to him. And Sherlock's mind in disarray always, _always,_ ended in chaos. Dangerous. 

Sherlock ruffled his hair while pacing grooves into the living room floor. Occasionally he took a detour to the window to check the street. However, nobody had the decency to be a male of 5ft 6 height with sandy-greyish hair, dark ocean blue-green-hazel eyes and a specifically endearing nose.

He hadn't realised how much time had passed when suddenly the telephone rang and made him jump. The landline. For Mrs Hudson then. Indeed, he heard his landlady pick up the phone, say a few enthusiastic words only to hang up again. Immediately after, the phone rang again but Mrs Hudson didn't seem to care. It kept ringing, the caller either very patient or determined. The only logical deduction was—this call was for Sherlock. And there was no doubt about who the caller was.

Hesitantly he picked up the phone, the handset traveled to his ear in slow-motion, he didn't dare to rest it against his skin, to touch, to connect. The lump forming in his throat made it impossible to voice any form of greeting, so he concentrated on breathing and moving to go sit down in his chair. For a last shred of safety. 

He heard his shallow breathing reflected on the other end of the line. There was also some kind of crackling that could only be caused by a breeze brushing across the speaker, something like splashing water, traffic noises very distant and muffled, the creaking of probably furniture or wooden floor, an occasional laughter of a human or seagull, or both. He tried to picture the location, where could this be? The city? Along the Thames? Not enough data… not enough data!

"Uhm… Sherlock?" Familiar voice, dear voice, warm but reserved, hesitant but inquiring. Sherlock blew out the breath he was holding.

"Yeah?" His voice squeaked pathetically. He cleared his throat, forced his voice into steadiness. "Yes. It's me. Hi." Hi? _Hi?_ His mental state was worse than expected. He used to delete 'Hi'-s now he had become a 'Hi' himself. He cringed.

Silence. Ambient noises the melody to his heartbeat.

"You're home then?" A fact with a question mark. A question asking for more than a simple answer.

"As you have now confirmed, regarding the fact that you called the landline, I'm indeed back at Baker Street." 

"Sherlock…" Not warning. Not irritated. Not impatient. Disappointed. Small. Tired. _'Shit'._ What else could he say? Without making it worse? Words… where had all his words gone to?

"So… you heard it then?" Again an as fact disguised question asking for inaccessible answers.

"Hmm." A hopefully confirming hum. 

Silence.

"Just wanted to let you know. Make sure you know." A statement. No question mark in sight. 

Was he supposed to respond to it? What could he possibly say without making a complete fool of himself. He'd need a John Watson at his side to hint an acceptable reaction, to silently mouth him the rescuing words. Unfortunately, that wasn't exactly an option right now. 

The breathing on the other end was getting a bit faster, a bit more shallow. Nervous then. Stressed? Anxious? Very unfortunate he wasn't able to take a pulse or observe other clues like pupils, body language, perspiration. Scent. Mouth. Hands. Gazes. Voice. 

Yes, very very unfortunate. Sherlock was lost in thought imagining John in front of him to be deduced. What would he see? What would John let him see? Would Sherlock even dare to look closely? 

"So you understand then? You understand that I lo…"

"YES!!!" _'Don't say it. Please don't say it. Can't stay strong if you say it. I would have to react. What would I be supposed to say? I don't know what to say! I don't know… '_ "Yes. Yes, I understand. I… yes, you've made that clear." he cleared his throat. "Yes." 

He knew he was repeating himself. He hated repeating himself. Right now though, he'd hate any other option even more. He was lost. He was staring in the face of life altering events and was lost for words. 

"Uhm… alright then. Okay, yes.. yes. Okay. Noted." John cleared his throat. Sherlock heard him inhale sharply. Bracing himself? Trying to be strong? Disappointed? Of course he was disappointed! Sherlock had hurt him. Again. That was the _whole problem_ , damnit! He groaned in frustration. 

John seemed to misunderstand it. How could he not. He chuckled a bit, but Sherlock knew this sort of chuckle. Had been on the receiving end often enough. The "okay-message-received-don't-mind-me"-chuckle. 

"Well, alright…," John said, voice pretended cheerfully, but also throaty and a little rough. The way a voice sounded over held back tears.

Sherlock winced.

"John, listen…"

"No, Sherlock, it's… it's okay. Really! It's all fine!" spoken in a hurry.

"No, John, it is…"

"All fine! It's all… fine!" matter of fact. Subject closed. "All I want, Sherlock…" _'Little hitch in his voice saying my name. Lie.'_ "...is… we have to find a way to talk. Just… you and me, yeah? I mean, the songs and all, that's great. It's good. But," a small huff, "It's not as if we're writing them, right? Sometimes… _often_ actually… I don't know anymore what is you and what is the song, Sherlock. I mean…" the tiniest of pauses, passed almost unnoticed, almost, "I'm here, listening to that song and trying to understand—I really do try, Sherlock—but you're all the way over there, far too far away, and I can't ask you and you can't… This way we'll never… What I mean is… God, why is this so difficult?" Sherlock could picture him running his fingers through his hair in frustration. Whispered under his breath, "Sherlock? You still there?"

"Yeah." His voice was rough, out of breath. He needed to breathe! "Yes, I'm here."

"Good. That's good!" Exhale on the other end of the line. "I just don't want any misunderstandings anymore. I can't… I think we only _think_ we understand, you know? But we don't… actually. We just think we do and… And then I mean we both! And then… Shit, does that even make sense?"

"Yes, John. It does." Sherlock wondered how it was possible that his voice was calm and steady again. How would John interpret that? Was that good? Not good? He stopped himself from groaning again just in time. "But then, people and their motives are _always_ difficult to understand."

" _Not for you, goddamnit!"_ John lost his temper for a moment. Sherlock could feel through the phone how John got himself back under control. He was trying, Sherlock realised. He was trying really hard. Sherlock's heart sped up a notch. After a while, calm, gentle, "You could, Sherlock. If anyone is that clever, it's you. And… we're not 'people', Sherlock. We never were. We've always been just Sherlock and John. When has anything _people_ did ever applied to us?" 

_'Us… us… us… God. Yes. Please.'_ He couldn't say anything, otherwise that would have been what would have escaped his mouth. He pressed his front teeth hard into his bottom lip until it hurt, to keep himself from speaking. Apparently John didn't mind his silence. At least it didn't keep him from carrying on.

"I want to know you again, Sherlock. I lost you somewhere along the road." There was a silence, then a whisper, "I want you back, Sherlock." A little whimper escaped his tightly shut lips. He tried to muffle it immediately but wasn't sure if he had succeeded. He heard John swallow. 

"I want to understand." John said. "Get to know you for real. The _real_ you. _All_ of you!" 

Sherlock had to sit down. It was the kitchen chair he landed on. Hard. No idea how he had gotten there. He breathed in. Out. In. Out.

"I once knew a guy," John said, voice a bit lighter, almost a bit playful. "A great guy, by the way. Yeah, a… a really good man… And he used to say he hated not knowing. And now I understand at least that." he chuckled, got serious again. "I hate not knowing."

"John." Only a whisper. Had that even been audible?

"Sherlock," voice soft. And warm. "Are you happy like this?"

He swallowed. And swallowed. Tried to speak. But didn't succeed. In the end.

"No." Strangled, as if it had escaped against his will.

"Then let us try, Sherlock! At least try! If we don't try we'll never know!" He sounded distressed now. Sherlock heard him pacing. The creaking of the wood getting louder again.

"It's not that I don't want to, John." he finally managed to get out.

"I don’t get it, Sherlock," a trace of anger again. A forced deep breath, then calmer, "if it is what I want and what you want, what's keeping you?" 

"It's just… I…" damnit, he was stammering. This wasn't helping to underpin his position. He took a deep breath. "I can’t do this, John."

"Why ever not, Sherlock?" John sounded desperate, helpless, pleading.

"I will destroy everything. Again." He wasn't able to ban the pain that creeped into his words.

"Sherlock, no, stop…" Suddenly John sounded urgent.

"No, John, listen. You don't understand. You _need_ to understand!" Now it was he himself, who was pleading, desperate. He was also pacing again now. When had that happened? He felt pain on his scalp and realised he was clutching his hair with one hand while the other held the phone in a tight grip. As if that could prevent John from hanging up. "Just look. Think, John. It was never my intention, but… first, the fall… all I wanted was… but then… and Mary, John. Mary!! If it wasn't for me, then…"

"Shut up, Sherlock." ragged breathing. "Stop it. That's all long ago. It happened. It's done. I don't… I don't want that to stand between us. Constantly. I…"

"It hurt you, John. I hurt you, always."

 _"You're hurting me now!"_ John shouted.

"See…" now they were getting there. John needed to understand. It hurt. God, did it hurt. But it needed to be done. 

"Shit, sorry." sad and tired. So tired. "That's not what I meant, Sherlock…"

"But it is what _I_ meant." He waited a moment, let it sink in. John didn't respond. Didn't argue. Good. He was finally seeing sense. "I keep hurting you, John. Mary…"

"Screw Mary! I have no interest in Mary!!" John hissed through obviously gritted teeth. 

"Still, if it isn't the fall… or Mary, there are other things. A lot of other things."

"What other things?" voice flat. Hesitant?

"Drugs."

"What drugs?"

"John, don't do that. You know perfectly well, that I…"

"No, Sherlock. What drugs? After the…" he swallowed, "wedding? We sorted that. It's as long ago as Mary and I told you… Sherlock, I don't care! That was then, this is now."

"No, John. I mean the drugs from _now._ That's exactly the point!" he got angry. Why was John playing games with him? "You've seen me. You've been there. I know that. You know that I know that. So, why this ruse, John?" he nearly yelled, just yet contained.

"You don't know, do you?" honest surprise? He sounded truly baffled. "You really don't know… Mycroft didn't…?" a little huff. A relieved huff? Why would he be relieved? "Sherlock… there've been no drugs."

"John, you can stop that. Why would you…," why would he deny it? "You know what I'm talking about. _I_ know what I'm talking about. I've seen the marks, John. Marks—plural. And I know—which _you_ don't—where I woke. A place familiar to you as well, by the way." He felt his voice getting harsher, his old sarcastic voice, sharp like a knife. As painful, too. He felt the urge to hurt John. To make him see. Better on purpose than by accident. "I _know_ I had drugs on me, which I _didn't_ have afterwards." John wanted to interrupt him. He heard the inhale that preceded the words. But he wouldn't let him. He had to get this out. Had to be done with it. He couldn't let John live on with illusions Sherlock wasn't sure were still possible. Normally John wasn't _that_ naive. "I am a hundred percent sure that I bought drugs, John. And I didn't have them afterwards. I checked. I know the exact location of each and every hiding place, John." Again the inhale on the other end. ' _Quick, talk, don't let him come between you and the things that must be said.'_ "The only thing I can't remember is, how I paid them…" he couldn't avoid sounding rougher, the thought alone that he'd sunk that deep again appalled him, made him sick, "... but considering that aside from the overall soreness there were no notable bruises or injuries, visible or nonvisible, I live in hope that…"

"Sherlock," it was only a whisper, barely audible above the background noise. But it was more effective than any yell could have been.

Sherlock stopped and swallowed. It hurt him so much to imagine John having this mental picture of him. But then, it was the truth. This was the real Sherlock. Didn't John say he wanted to know the real him? Well, here we are then. Welcome to the freak show of Sherlock Holmes. Take a seat, take a snack. Let the show begin. 

There was a stretched silence. He could picture John hesitating, weather to hang up or to be the considerate man he was and end the call _nicely._ Like acid that word burned in his heart, etching holes in it like old and worn out moth-eaten garment, unused, abandoned.

"I can't believe that Mycroft didn't…" the same small whisper.

"Didn't _what_?" Sherlock spat.

"You haven't taken any of the drugs, Sherlock. I checked. I found them. I discarded them."

Sherlock breathed, mind whirled, tried to make sense of John's words. It couldn't be the truth. John tried to soothe him, to calm him, to trick his mind into believing… 

"But the marks…" his voice wasn't as steady and sure as he wanted it to be.

"That was me, Sherlock. Blood tests, IV's, fluids, nourishment… all me." a sad little chuckle. "You were a pain in the ass of a patient even in the state you were in… unconscious and still a brat." an actual laugh. Sounded honest, sounded real. Sherlock frowned, shook his head. He found himself rolled up, folded around himself in his chair. Lying on his side. Watching John's chair. Was it still John's chair? He knew his mind wandered because it tried to evade John's words, because they couldn't be true… 

"Had to prick you several times. And I only had that right arm of yours. The left crook was… nevermind. I don't even know how often I had to put damned catheters back in. You ripped them out in your sleep… God knows how you did that…" chuckle, "couldn't leave you alone for one minute…" laugh, "nothing new there, yeah?" He sounded fond. Fond?

A memory, a picture, him sitting on the edge of his bed, just woken, staring down at his arm. Something had felt wrong. Not the marks, they were expected. What didn't fit in the picture? At that time Sherlock hadn't been able to grasp it, mind fogged, body wrecked. Now though, realisation dawned. It was true. The arm. The wrong arm. The right arm, he never used the right arm. His dominant arm. Too important. Couldn't risk it. Experiments, the violin… 

"But the way I felt. When I woke. I know that…"

"Dehydration, physical exhaustion, malnutrition. Sherlock, from what I could estimate, you hadn't eaten for more than two days. Don't know about drinking. And Mycroft said…" he cleared his throat, "... you danced for hours, Sherlock. _Hours_!" His breathing had sped up. Agitated? Frustrated? Anxious? Sherlock was at a loss. John added, concerned? Empathetic? Sherlock despised pity. "How could you not have felt that way? You were a wreck when I found you, Sherlock. I was…" that shallow breath again. In the background a seagull ridiculed them with their piercing laughter. "I was concerned. Worried." pause, "I couldn't lose you, again." Silence. Noises muffled, only a thin layer of soundscape. A ringing in Sherlock's ears.

"I missed a whole day, John, that's hardly…" was he pleading? Pleading for what? For his abomination to be confirmed? He needed to be someone, something, John wouldn't want. How would he otherwise be able to…

"Dissociation, Sherlock. Did you ever experience that before?"

Flashes of intangible non-memories. A very young self running through a forest, calling for something, someone, yelling, screaming until his throat was sore. A bit older version of him in back alleys, beaten up, sore for other reasons, in other areas of his body. A fairly recent Sherlock somewhere foreign, languages he faintly remembered, faces he couldn't place, different kinds of pain on body and soul.

"Yes." trembling, timid.

"Can happen after events of great mental and or emotional impact," a lot more cautious. "Can you tell me, what…"

"John, no! Don't!" _'I can't. I can't spell it out.'_ If he were to put in words what he felt, John would think… He would… his throat grew tighter, breathing became more difficult, heart beating faster chasing the last remaining molecules of oxygen. Brain slowing down, thoughts straying through mist.

"You really didn't know." almost breathless. "I wanted to tell you. At the park. But you left and I couldn't… Why did you leave, Sherlock? Why did you leave me behind? You promised!" all said in a rush, faster and faster. Then a break, shaky inhale, "You… promised, Sherlock." 

"More proof that I can’t be trusted," resigned, but strangely calm. The confirmation somehow settled something within him. It felt clammy, mushy, dark grey. Like mud. It covered his insides, it coated his heart. "Again. Again and again."

"Bullshit, Sherlock! That's bullshit!!" fierce and angry. " _I_ trust you!"

"Why would you?" 

"Because I do! Just because… it's you. I did from the first moment we met, even though you gave me enough reason not to. But I knew it, Sherlock. I _knew_!! Somehow all my senses screamed… dunno… it sounds silly, but…" the fond chuckle was back. John's mood swings were impressive, fascinating, so very him. It made Sherlock's mind swirl and swim as it always did. Damn John Watson for being so very much him. How was Sherlock supposed to withstand him. The chuckle died down, a seriousness in its place that made Sherlock swallow. "I don't even know what it was, but something told me… 'Don't let that man go. Hold on to him. Keep him'. That's what I'm trying ever since."

"I left you. I lied to you for two years." It was like reading off a list. Point one, point two, … how many more to go? When would John tire in his efforts?

"I know. That's true. And it's certainly not forgotten." There it was. Although it sounded strangely calm, no anger, not the usual resentment this subject never failed to cause. "And we sure as hell have to talk about it. At some point. As we have to about a lot of other things." 

Sherlock gave a confirming grunt. Not to the desire to talk about anything. What would be the purpose of that? No, he rather welcomed John's acknowledgment of his faults. 

"Told you, that's how I am. What I do. Keep doing." He tried to keep his mood under control. Now they were finally making progress. 

"And I told you I want to give us a chance. To move on. Together. We've both made mistakes. We're both flawed, God knows we are. But… that was then. This is now. Let us at least try."

"I'm afraid I'm not capable of changing."

"And I told you I will fight for it. For us."

"And I still doubt that that is a war that can be won."

"And I'm a soldier. I won't give up." 

"It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognise danger when it is close upon you."

"Huh?" John, eloquent as always when he was out of his depth. A rueful smile quirked Sherlock's lips. He had loved that puzzled look on John's face. He still loved it, even just the thought of it. His heart writhed in pain, twisted in agony. He wanted to see that look on John's face again, among a million other things John's face had to offer. Yet, he was afraid of his own reaction if he would have to face John again. Would he be strong enough? He knew he wouldn't. He had to keep John at arm's length. But wasn't arm's length still close enough to reach out, to touch, to pull close, to hold…?

"Arthur Conan Doyle. Didn't you read him? I thought you were so fond of crime novels and detective stories." His only weapon, a sharp remark. Offence. Sarcasm. He was aware how transparent his attempt was. He had no other guard left, he was close to losing. He could feel it.

"Sherlock, stop that. Just… stop it. Why are you this evasive? Why are you backing off each time I think we're taking one step forward? What are you afraid of?" 

"Maybe we should just give up the fight. Fighting for something that isn't there. Fighting with each other. Just… truce. No winner, no loser. Tie game. John. Maybe this game has to be over. 21 guns… remember?"

"The game is never over, Sherlock. Maybe we just need some new rules. Make our own game." John was clearly agitated, desperate. Sherlock realised that he had no more arguments against a stubborn and determined John Watson. 

"I won’t, Sherlock. I won’t ever give up, never again. We already wasted so much time! I will never…" breathing, quick, shallow, close to the speaker, "No, Sherlock. I won't give up."

Sherlock was paralysed, he was outplayed, he wasn't able to calculate his next move. In the end, this truly was a draw. It just didn't feel as peaceful as he had hoped. He was nervous, his heart hammering frantically in his chest. The only way left was to wait… for the next move of his counterpart, to see what turn the game might take. Admittedly, it was no longer a game. It never had been. It had always been much more. It had always been… everything. And still was.

"Okay, I think…" John cleared his throat. Not formal but at least conversational he continued, "think about it, Sherlock. I know you need time to think it through. Just… promise me that you will, yeah? Can you do that? Will you at least… think about it?" 

Silence. Sherlock knew he had to say something. Anything. Deep inside he had known all along that it would come to this. He had feared it. He had hoped for it. He swallowed.

"Yes." His voice broke. This single little word too much to bear.

"Good." Plain relief. Simple and plain and honest relief. Almost seeping through the speaker. Almost seeping into Sherlock's brain and heart and soul. Almost.

"That's… good. I'm glad." John inhaled, exhaled. Sherlock smiled. John, always stating the obvious. 

"I'll leave you to it then. Just… call me. Will you? I mean… you _will_ call me, won't you?" A tint of worry, a tint of hope. "Contact me? Which ever way?"

Swallow. Shaky inhale. Eyes closed.

"Yes, John. I will."

"Oh… thank god." silently mumbled, not meant for Sherlock to hear. His heart did a little flip anyway. "Okay… Bye then, Sherlock. It was good to hear you. Yeah... really good." 

"Yes." Sherlock didn't even know what he was confirming. Probably the smile he imagined on John Watson's face. Or the gleam in John's eyes he knew was there. Or the tingling that got hold of his whole body. Or the tiny shiny undeniable trace of relief that wormed its way inside his heart. He'd see John again. The only remaining problem now was—how would he survive it? 

"Good bye, John." He lowered the phone slowly and cautiously pushed the button to end the call. 

He was standing at the window again. Observed the long shadows, only the rooftops still bathed in sunlight, people now wearing cardigans or light jumpers. Mrs Hudson watching one of her pre prime time series. The smell of something oven baked hanging in the air. How long had they been on the phone? It hadn't felt that long. But then, time never felt long when spent with John Watson. Actually, it never felt long enough.

John was right. He always was. Boring! Except, it really wasn't. Nothing about John Watson was boring. He was right though, Sherlock had a lot to think about. He stared out of the window. Watched the people walk by without seeing them. Deeply lost in thoughts he startled when his mobile pinged. And pinged again. Sherlock looked around for it and got a bit frantic when it wouldn't stop pinging. He finally found it on his chair, apparently slipped out of the pocket of his dressing gown. With fumbling fingers he unlocked the screen. 

John. He had not changed the sound of the message alert yet. It didn't seem necessary, considering it had never been the intention for John to contact him again. The messages came in like rapid fire and left Sherlock no time or chance to respond. He read through them. Eyes wide. And suddenly they stopped.

**received 6.48pm  
** **I know I said I'd leave you to it.  
  
**

 **received 6.48pm  
** **But I forgot to say something  
  
**

 **received 6.49pm  
** **And before you start thinking, I need to tell you.  
  
**

 **received 6.50pm  
** **Otherwise that silly old brain of yours will come up with some nonsense I can't say anything against. I know what your mind can be like. Don't go there, Sherlock.  
  
**

 **received 6.51pm  
** **You told me, you don't want a choice but reason.  
  
**

 **received 6.51pm  
** **In this, there is no reason. Can't be. Not the way you want to at least.  
  
**

 **received 6.52pm  
** **This isn't about logic, Sherlock.  
  
**

 **received 6.52pm  
** **Nothing predictable. You can't calculate what happens. Nothing to deduce out of this.  
  
**

 **received 6.52pm  
** **Sorry  
  
**

 **received 6.53pm  
** **I know you detest it. Even though I think you've more of it than anyone else. This is all about sentiment Sherlock. Feelings.  
  
**

 **received 6.54pm  
** **It's messy, it's chaotic, it's unpredictable, it's dangerous.  
  
**

 **received 6.54pm  
** **But… remember? You said 'dangerous' and here I am. I still am.  
  
**

 **received 6.55pm  
** **I can't give you guarantees.  
  
**

 **received 6.55pm  
** **I can't give you spreadsheets or studies or literature.  
  
**

 **received 6.55pm  
** **There's no reason Sherlock  
  
**

 **received 6.55pm  
** **The only reason I can give you is my love  
  
**

 **received 6.56pm  
** **I love you, Sherlock.  
  
**

 **received 6.57pm  
** **So. There's that. You didn't want me to say it. I get it. It's scary. Don't think I'm not scared as fuck as well. But you need to understand that Sherlock.  
  
**

 **received 6.58pm  
** **I wanted to say it to you in person. Wanted to see your beautiful face when I say it.  
  
**

 **received 6.58pm  
** **But you need to know it now. Not tomorrow or the day after or whenever your big brain is done with imagining the worst.  
  
**

 **received 6.59pm  
** **Whatever your decision will be, take this into consideration, yeah? That's all I want.  
  
**

 **received 6.59pm  
** **And know that I'll never give up on us. No matter which way. No matter what.  
  
**

 **received 7.00pm  
** **Let me know. Give me a sign when you're done thinking. I'll wait for you.  
  
**

 **received 7.00pm  
** **But please let's talk! Let me know when you're ready to see me. To talk.  
  
**

 **received 7.00pm  
** **Okay. I'll give you some time for yourself now.  
  
**

 **received 7.00pm  
** **For real. Promise! ;-)  
  
**

 **received 7.01pm  
** **Although I'm never far!  
  
**

 **received 7.04pm  
** **Oh, one last thing, sorry!!!  
  
**

 **received 7.04pm  
** **If you're still doubting  
  
**

 **received 7.05pm  
** **There's this song. And for the change, I really mean every single word of it.  
  
**

 **received 7.05pm  
** **Every. Single. Word.  
  
**

 **received 7.05pm  
** **Do you hear me, Sherlock? So listen closely, yeah?  
  
**

 **received 7.06pm  
** **And yes, you have to listen. Because yes, I'm a romantic. But so are you. Even if you won't admit it. I know anyway.  
  
**

 **received 7.06pm  
** **So here it is  
  
**

 **received 7.07pm  
**[ https://youtu.be/ramQAeO_d4c ](https://youtu.be/ramQAeO_d4c)   
  


**received 7.07pm  
** **Let me know. I'll wait. As long as it takes. John.**

Sherlock was out of breath as if he had run a marathon. He had rushed through the messages that fast, he was afraid he had missed half of it. He went over them again. And again. Mind distracted at a different point with each new re-read. But mostly, mainly, his eyes were glued to the one message. 

_'I love you, Sherlock.'_

He wasn't able to hear anything above the buzzing in his ears, the pounding of his racing heart. 

He didn't know how long he had only stared at the phone in his hand, when he suddenly remembered. The song. No more songs, John had said. But this one… every single word, John had said. 

With trembling fingers Sherlock scrolled back down to the end of the flood of messages. His thumb hovered for the fraction of a second, but he threw his hesitation to the winds. He would give in anyway. 

Thumb sank down, [tapped screen](https://youtu.be/ramQAeO_d4c). Eyes closed. Mind blank.

  
  


**_When I look into your eyes_ **

**_It's like watching the night sky_ **

**_Or a beautiful sunrise_ **

**_There’s so much they hold_ **

**_And just like them old stars_ **

**_I see that you've come so far_ **

**_To be right where you are_ **

**_How old is your soul?_ **

  
  


**_I won't give up on us_ **

**_Even if the skies get rough_ **

**_I'm giving you all my love_ **

**_I'm still looking up_ **

  
  


**_And when you're needing your space_ **

**_To do some navigating_ **

**_I'll be here patiently waiting_ **

**_To see what you find_ **

**_Cos even the stars they burn_ **

**_Some even fall to the earth_ **

**_We got a lot to learn_ **

**_God knows we're worth it_ **

**_No I won't give up_ **

**_I don't wanna be someone who walks away so easily I'm here to stay and make the difference that I can make_ **

**_Our differences they do a lot to teach us how to use the tools and gifts we've got yeah we got a lot at stake_ **

**_And in the end, you're still my friend at least we did intend for us to work we didn't break, we didn't burn_ **

**_We had to learn_ **

**_how to bend_ **

**_without the world_ **

**_caving in_ **

**_I had to learn_ **

**_what I got_ **

**_and what I'm not_ **

**_and who I am_ **

**_I won't give up on us_ **

**_Even if the skies get rough_ **

**_I'm giving you all my love_ **

**_I'm still looking up_ **

**_I'm still looking up_ **

**_Well, I won't give up on us_ **

**_God knows I'm tough enough_ **

**_We got a lot to learn_ **

**_God knows we're worth it_ **

**_I won't give up on us_ **

**_Even if the skies get rough_ **

**_I'm giving you all my love_ **

**_I'm still looking up_ **

  
  
  


When he was finally back in his body, when he finally was aware of his surroundings again, he felt a tear tickle down his cheek. 

He didn't open his eyes. He didn't move. He didn't wipe it away. 

He tried to breath regularly. He tried to calm his mind. He tried to rewind and replay and store the words in case John would change his mind again. 

The skies above London turned from blue to yellow, lined with crimson velvet. It faded from violet to purple to indigo until the first pinhead sized stars appeared.

The fireplace stayed cold. The curtains remained open. The ceiling sporadically brushed by the reflection of the headlights of a bypassing car. 

The never sleeping city's flurry calmed down to the hum of the night. 

Less and less voices audible in the neighborhood.

The lights of the flats on the opposite side of the street went out one after the other.

Mrs Hudson's telly switched off, the groaning of the water pipes died down.

Sherlock, motionless, in his chair. 

A sudden inhale of breath and his eyes snapped open. He blinked, the darkness unexpected.

The mobile phone still in his hand. Same position. Hand stiff and cold. 

When he unlocked his phone his hand trembled. He wasn't sure if it was the cold or the nerves.

Didn't matter. He didn't need a steady hand for what he had to say. He had thought it through. Thoroughly. There was only one thing he needed to say.

He typed.

He sent.

**send 02.35am  
** **John.**

He cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/ramQAeO_d4c)
> 
> * * *
> 
> There are two amazing fics I referenced/borrowed from in this chapter. I want to specifically mention them here, because they both influenced my perspective of Sherlock dealing with (past) relationships of great emotional impact. And because they're both great reads, on my personal list of all time favourites, and definitely worth checking out!!! So go ahead, dear readers, if you don't read them yet!  
>    
> Sherlock's insecurity about what "broken up" means is borrowed from the talented [Jobooksandcoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jobooksandcoffee/pseuds/Jobooksandcoffee) and her outstanding fic ["Will You Take Me Home?"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594099/chapters/55250647) (I linked chapter 5 in which this is relevant and of utmost importance for Sherlock and the rest of the whole story!)  
>   
> "That was then. This is now." Is actually such a small thing to say but had such a surprisingly (for me) great impact! It stayed with me ever since I read it in [7PercentSolutions'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution) so very intense and so very compelling ["The Ex - An Ex Files Special"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239561/chapters/44150026) for the first time. This work is part two of the ["Nothing Made Me" series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583050) (also linked the relevant chapter). Making use of creative license though I put it in the mouth of someone other than in the fic, but nonetheless it was written with said fic in mind...


	16. Brave Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the corner of Baker Street he stopped his stride, nerves suddenly prickling up his neck and over his scalp. Looking diagonally across the street he could see Speedy's red awning. Impressive how different such a simple sight can feel. Not long ago in the rain it had felt like desperation and dread, a few days later it had felt like loss and emptiness. Now though, it felt like hope, like confidence, like a thousand bees buzzing through his body. 
> 
> He took a deep steadying breath and continued his path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> There are three things I want to mention today...
> 
> 1.) Thank you. Again and still and always. All of you.  
> (This is mostly for my WIP-follow-along-readers...)  
> 2.) Since I started writing this story, in my mind it has always had a 3-part-structure. While it has mostly been a framework for the writing process, it became more and more important to me. I decided to apply the structure after all since it has become a significant characteristic of the story. I also added it to the already posted chapters. You'll also find it at the end of this one. We now have **_part 1: "Me"_** = chapter 1-6, **_part 2: "You"_** = chapter 7-... and **_part 3=?_**
> 
> 3.) Due to the current Corona-madness I'll probably have to stretch the posting schedule. I'm aiming for the next chapter to be posted within two weeks. Although I can't make promises right now! I'll make an update post on tumblr as usual and hope that Ao3 will have its emails sorted any time soon! What I **_CAN_** promise though is that this fic will be finished. I just didn't take a pandemic holding the world hostage into account when I started posting this fic...
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter! I very much enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Take care and stay safe everyone!  
> Lots of love,  
> me xxx  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

He had decided against going over to Baker Street in the middle of the night. He had hoped to be better rested in the morning, to have sorted his words and thoughts and emotions, to be able to face Sherlock in a composed state. 

He had underestimated what an impact a single word message would have on him. He hadn’t fallen asleep, working himself more and more into a state the longer the night lasted. Picturing all kinds of worst and best case scenarios without coming to any conclusion about what the best way to approach Sherlock could be. It was true, he had initiated the meeting, the talking. The fact that he found it necessary and rendered it the only solution to all their misery hadn’t changed. Nonetheless, that didn’t mean that the nerves didn’t get to him. 

He had laid his heart bare with the song he had sent to Sherlock. He still stood by what he had said… well, written actually. He meant every single word of it. Now though, it was Sherlock’s move. And John was afraid of what it would be. He couldn’t pin Sherlock down. Sherlock was the master of mixed messages recently. There was nothing John wanted more than to be with Sherlock, but only if Sherlock wanted it just as badly. All in or not at all. But even that part was all true… _‘in the end you’re still my friend’_! He did mean it. He’d always be Sherlock’s friend, regardless of the outcome of this meeting, this talk. Damn, it all sounded so bloody formal and serious. Although, maybe a bit of formality would be for the best. They’d had enough emotional mess and drama and misunderstanding. Serious it was, so serious it should be treated. 

Still, that didn’t necessarily mean that Sherlock felt the same about it. They still hadn’t talked. Not even scratched the surface of the topic. Sherlock had avoided it like the plague. _‘Charming comparison’,_ John thought. 

Ignoring it, was most definitely no long term option. It was standing between them like the proverbial elephant in the room. Only this specimen was more the size of a mammoth. Standing in their way, leaving them no possibility to move. This way they were not able to take any step forward, but there was no way back either. He couldn’t believe this was a state Sherlock would be willing to live in. Staying. Just staying… boring. So something had to be done about it and John was determined to do so. 

When he finally drifted off, in the early morning hours, he slept restlessly. He was thrown from one dream into another, chasing each other as if battling to get the upper hand. All of them circling around one word. John. _'John'._ Always the same voice, never sounding the same.

 _'John',_ he heard, sharp, accusing, berating. The undefined room around him weighing on him, dark, dusty, suffocating.

 _'John',_ he heard, pleading, asking, begging. Standing on a bridge, broken, closed off, raging waters running underneath.

 _'John',_ he heard, screamed, frightened, desperate. Running towards a raven black abyss, out of breath, never getting closer.

 _'John',_ he heard, whispered, warm, welcoming. Bathed in orangey-red, soft, dim, comfort.

 _'John',_ he heard, moaned, breathless, passionate. Drowned in heat, bright lights flashing behind his eyes, dizzy, floating, overwhelmed.

He startled awake, jolted, sat up. Breathless, sweaty, heart pounding. Taking in and realising where he was, he squeezed his eyes shut and let himself fall back into his pillows.

When he peeled himself out of bed not much later, he wondered how he would be able to even survive this day without falling asleep on his feet. When he then padded to the bathroom his back and neck and all joints actually reminded him painfully that he wasn't the youngest of all 'confirmed bachelors' anymore. The mirror above the sink confirmed this cruelly, showing him pillow creases on his cheeks, the ever growing bags under his eyes, the rings accentuating them tinted in an even darker shade of blue-ish grey than usual, although the rest of his face was pale in a way that he could compete with Sherlock and win. To make it all worse he hadn't been to the hairdresser the last couple of weeks as his mind was occupied with more urgent topics. Now he had to pay for it; his hair didn't want to be tamed, he looked like a scarecrow. 

He leaned heavily on the sink and sighed. He looked at himself in the mirror and the doubt and self-consciousness hit him full force. It was all well with his own plans and feelings, but why in heaven would gorgeous, brilliant, talented, passionate Sherlock Holmes… why would he want to be bound to someone like him? He indulged into a staring contest with himself for a moment before he gave himself an imaginary kick up the arse. _‘Come on, Watson, where’s your three-continents-reputation gone to? Never been such a coward before, Mr.Ladies-Man…! But then… it has never counted before… it has never been this important…’_ He straightened his spine and took a deep breath. He had to make the best of what he got to offer. He picked up razor and shaving cream and got to work… _‘I prefer my doctors clean shaven… well, then you’ll get your doctor clean shaven…’_

He couldn’t remember when had been the last time that he had put that much effort in his appearance. Maybe the night he had proposed… well, had planned to propose to… he shivered. He refused to even think that name. No, not even for that half-hearted proposal had he taken this long. 

He was still standing in his vest and pants in front of the sofa, where he had laid out the garments of choice, when a ruffled and sleepy Greg emerged from the bedroom. He scratched his cheeks and yawned heartily.

“What got into you…?” he mumbled still half dazed. He looked over at John, spotted the clothes, the fidgeting man, smelled the clouds of cologne and smirked. 

“Ah… I see…”

“Shut it, Greg.” John looked embarrassed.

“It’s not as if you’ve never seen him before, right?” Greg teased. 

“Greeeeeg…,” John whinged, “not funny!”

“I know, mate! I’m happy for you! I really am! But… you know… he won't care about your clothes, I think…” 

“No? You sure?” John responded doubtfully and eyed the choice he had made.

“You know… they’ll be off in no time anyway…,” Greg giggled.

“Oi! Gregory Lestrade!” John shouted while turning and flinging one of the cushions at the man, who was full on laughing now. “What kind of friend are you?” He tried to sound offended but had to laugh himself.

“The most supportive one…,” Greg smirked. John huffed and got serious again.

“You really are, Greg. I don’t know how to thank you for everything. I mean… I don't know what the outcome of this meeting with Sherlock will be, but whatever will happen will be better than before. I couldn't have done this without you.” John swallowed and nodded.

“Don’t go all sentimental on me, Watson!” Greg tried to banter, but John could see that he was moved nonetheless. “Just… get on with it and get your guy, yeah? That’d be thanks enough… if I won’t have to watch you two morons pining after each other anymore.”

John flipped him off and turned, but was full of gratitude. His mood lighter, his hopes up he finally started to dress.

***** **  
**

He didn't even try to stay calm. Being sure this time that John would come to see him felt even worse than yesterday when it had all still been unsure, insecure, in a fog of possibilities and probabilities and wishes and fears and hopes. This was different, this was definite. A fact. The emotions accompanying it crystal clear like a droplet of morning dew, like the sun through the crisp air of an early winter morning. Like looked at through his magnifying glass. This felt like meeting John at 7pm on the 30th of January 2010 at Baker Street all over again. This was like asking _'Want to see some more?'_ again. This was like getting asked _'You have a boyfriend then?'_ again. Thrilling, frightening, overwhelming. Not sure what the outcome would be. 

This time though, he wanted to get it right. He wanted nothing more than to right all the wrongs on the path of his that had led to this point. The path—their path?—from here on needed to be different, better. But that was exactly the problem. Yesterday, after their talk on the phone, he had been hopeful that they’d figure something out to still be in each other’s orbit without coming too close, without losing their path, without losing each other. He had honestly tried to keep the promise to think this through and make a plan how this might look like in reality, how it could work without unnecessary damage. He’d have to rearrange his mind palace. It would take some time. He had mentally prepared himself for a long night of sorting and moving boxes and shelves and building rooms and wings. And then… the texts. The song. It had made all his plans collapse like a card house. Not that it had been built on very solid ground anyway, but now it was washed away like a sand castle after the flood. The mind palace wing which was filled with heavy and overflowing boxes of _‘how to keep your distance, ways to be just his friend, don’t come too close tactics’-_ spreadsheets sunk like Atlantis—a faint memory, a myth, inaccessible. All his carefully built barriers cracked, broken, shattered. _He_ was shattered. On the one hand it was freeing. He felt alive. But on the other hand it also meant he had to face and deal with all his fears, his anxieties, his worries. He felt stripped down to the core, he felt laid bare. He was terrified. 

John claimed that he meant what was implied in the song. He wouldn’t give up if they’d face rougher times? He wouldn’t give up if they’d make mistakes? He wouldn’t give up if Sherlock would retreat, needed time for himself? He would be willing to learn, together with Sherlock? He would… still be his friend? Would he? Even if it didn’t work? Between them? A… relationship? Sherlock got dizzy at the thought. Because… what if… what if _Sherlock_ gave up? What if Sherlock wouldn’t get it right, failed—again, messed it up, wouldn’t be able to learn—enough…? Would he stay? Would they be alright nevertheless? Would they last? 

He needed John to understand what he was getting himself into. He couldn’t risk hurting John, again. He needed him to understand that Sherlock was the worst possible choice of a partner. He needed John to understand that Sherlock was absolutely useless at relationships. Although he feared that John was well aware of all of that. And that he wouldn’t deem it an argument. John really was an adrenaline addict. Even now. And if anyone knew about the irresistible pull of your drug of choice, it was Sherlock. Wasn’t his own strongest source of addiction and the cause of all his recent weakness on his way to Baker Street right this moment, too? Perhaps. Hopefully. 

Despite everything, at this point he wanted it. He wanted to face John, look at him, deduce his sincerity, his willingness to transfer all those words, all those unspoken promises into reality. To develop all the blurred and roughly sketched pictures those words had painted in Sherlock’s mind into something realistic, recognisable, tangible. To fill it with colour and memories, to let it show all the details Sherlock wasn’t able to imagine. He couldn’t estimate them yet. He had no data to base his expectations on. He had no room in his mind palace to retreat to, to prepare him for what was about to come. He felt helpless like during the first days of his teenage years, his young adult life, when he had to face _people_ for the first time outside the shelter of his self-created childhood world, without any idea how to deal with them. With _it._ With _life._

He hadn’t dealt well, at first. Later, he had found his way, his weapons, his armour to not lose the battle against his worst enemy—himself. It hadn’t always worked, he had lost, got scarred, multiple times. He had always returned to the battlefield though, which choice had he had really, and had tried harder, fought better. 

Right now, he felt the same wariness, the same vulnerability. The same overwhelming feeling of stepping over the edge of a cliff, falling into a raven-black ravine without seeing the ground, without being able to estimate the depth, without knowing what to expect at the end of the fall. Nothing to hold on to. Nothing to stop him.

This was the first time though, that he wouldn’t have to do it alone. There was someone standing next to him on that cliff. Someone telling him that the ravine wasn’t dark but lit by sunlight, that the landing wouldn’t hurt. That the tingling in his stomach wasn’t gravity pulling him down but happiness making him float. He trusted this someone, he trusted John, like he had never trusted anyone before.

Still, taking that last step was frightening. Didn’t all his previous experiences contradict those promises? What if though… what if… it would turn out different than John expected it to? If Sherlock made him take a look over the edge and he’d see darkness? He’d see rocks that could hurt them, he’d see… 

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was brave enough to risk it. To risk that John would realise too late, that it was once again Sherlock's fault if John Watson fell into the deepest darkest pit and hit rock bottom. It was his greatest, most terrifying fear—to hurt John Watson beyond repair. To be the one who broke this unbreakable man.

Would John still be willing to take his hand? Take that step—together? Jump—together? He doubted it. He feared it. He hoped for it. Although Sherlock knew, he wasn't worthy.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had to gather all his strength not to run away, hide. He wouldn’t, this time! He would stay, he would try, he would let John know. He would let John see. Then, it would be John’s decision to make. 

He had instructed Mrs Hudson not to come upstairs. He wouldn't be able to bear her fussing and asking and excitement. Too much. She wasn't allowed to listen. She wasn't allowed to comment afterwards. Or beforehand. Better not talk to John at all. 

"Am I allowed to breathe? Or are you afraid I'd inhale him?" She had glanced at him, mocking him. Exactly the reason why he didn't want her around. How was this funny when he was nearly dying. She really was a cruel woman. And she didn't stop.

"And look at him? What about that? I mean… not that I accidentally make him go up in flames..." She raised her eyebrows, as if to accentuate the deadly weapons that were her eyes.

"I wouldn't even put it beyond you." Sherlock scowled. "You _are_ allowed to open the door." 

“How very generous of you, dear.” She only patted his cheek, laughed heartily and walked into her flat, closed the door behind herself. Sherlock could still hear her laugh on the other side of the door when he climbed the 17 familiar steps to his flat. Their flat? How could Mrs Hudson be this lighthearted about it all?

******

John was a bit proud of himself. After his fruitless night he had concluded, that there was no use in trying to sort things with Sherlock when there was nothing sorted within himself. He’d only end up stammering and getting twisted in his words again. Sherlock would misunderstand, John would be unable to explain, Sherlock would close up, … well, the usual. They’d end up where they’d begun, again, or—even worse—move backwards. No option. Not happening. 

John still didn’t know what Sherlock was thinking. His message could mean everything. But it was a sign, a sign that Sherlock was finally willing to talk. That much must have been clear after yesterday. No hiding, no assuming, no holding back anymore. Sherlock knew now without any possibility to misinterpret what John was feeling for him. They had to address it today. In some way. Sherlock had to react, to make a statement. Because there were really only two options, right? ‘ _No, sorry, but…’_ or, John swallowed, _‘Yes, me too.’_

Without any idea about Sherlock’s decision and with an award-worthy mess in his own head—in the spirit of ‘no more assuming’—he needed a battle-plan. Lacking any reliable data, he had to work his way onwards from the only indisputable fact in this disaster—John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps, the best approach to Sherlockian problems were Sherlockian methods. John needed a spreadsheet. For now, he had to rely on possibilities, probabilities, options. He had to sketch the both most extreme edges of the spectrum of possibilities and find options to be able to move in between. 

In the end, he had taken paper and pen and had settled at the kitchen counter. Coffee in one hand he had scribbled notes, had scratched and added, had wondered and weighed and had come up with an actual flow chart. It was absurd to have a graphic on ‘How To Test The Waters With One Sherlock Holmes’. It really was ridiculous. But then, what wasn’t ridiculous about them? 

That settled, he felt much more confident. He folded the paper, slid it as a reminder in the back pocket of his snuggly dark blue denim. Of course, he had no intention of actually using it, it was more like a cheat sheet in school, a crutch. He had it all memorised, all the maybes and what-ifs, all the crossroads and junctions. Just knowing it was there, helped him to sort his thoughts. 

In high spirits and with high hopes, he set out for the start of the rest of his life. He had decided to take the bus to Victoria station and walk the rest of the way. He took his time, to calm his mind, to clear his head. He came through St.James Park. He loved to watch the ducks there and to sit on one of the benches, thinking back to the moment when he had tried to tell Sherlock that he was one of the two people who had turned his life around. That he had done the same for him as Mary had when Sherlock couldn’t. But then… Sherlock had been the first! Sherlock was the first, his first, so many times and in so many ways. Only, the git hadn’t even waited for John to finish his sentence and had vanished into thin air. So typical, always avoiding the emotional bits, but not today. Today he’d have to listen. John leisurely walked past Covent Garden, enjoyed the sun on his face, the relaxed early summer buzz in the city. It was morning still, not holiday season yet, London was enlivened by Londoners. John let his gaze and mind roam, seeing Sherlock and himself at every corner, past cases passing his memory. The swelling noise of traffic and the chatter of people, footfalls of slendering or hurrying passers-by, an occasional dog, a lost seagull, the bell of a bike rushing past him. The smell of the first cafés opening, serving breakfast and coffee, the inevitable car exhaust, the underlying London typical mix of nearby water and millions of multicultural lives lived. All of it caused a feeling of safeness within John, a feeling of comfort. Of being home. 

On a whim he decided to take a detour over Russell Square. It felt fitting today. It’s where everything had started. It’s where destiny had taken its course and where John’s life had been turned inside out, upside down. It’s where his life had started to make sense even if it hadn’t made sense ever since. For a short moment he sat on the bench— _T_ _he_ bench —and wondered if he should let a memorial plate get installed, for the 29th of January 2010. He grinned at his own teenage-y silly infatuation and sent a silently mouthed ‘Thank You’ into the skies to be carried into the universe and to Mike Stamford. He stood, walked over to the café at the corner and picked up two take-away coffees—one with milk, one black two sugars.

He felt calm. He felt content. He felt grounded. It would be fine. _They_ would be fine. He was sure now.

******

He nearly got a heart attack the moment he was startled by the sound of Mrs Hudson opening the front door. 

"Hello dear, lovely to see you!" Mrs Hudson chirped. 

Sherlock frowned. She was not supposed to talk to John. He would have to have a word with her later. Also, much too cheery! And why so surprised, she _knew_ John was coming. 

There was no response and Sherlock wondered what took them so long, but was then surprised and confused to hear much lighter than expected footsteps on the stairs. Mrs Hudson coming up after all? No, much too unhindered to be her.

When the door to the flat opened cautiously he looked puzzled at the visitor.

"Molly? You?" He couldn't hide the with curiosity mixed disappointment.

"Ha… yeah… last time I checked…" she said, followed by the uncertain-shy-nervous laugh-giggle-chuckle very own to Molly. 

"What…?" But Sherlock didn't get any further with his question before Molly interrupted.

"Sherlock, I know this might not be the most opportune moment… although, it is actually… however, I wanted to talk to you. This is important and and I _have_ to say it, otherwise I’d never forgive myself and well, here I am. Can I come in?" She looked expectantly at him. A bit wary, a bit determined. 

"Well, you already are, aren't you?" he said reluctantly. He had no time for this. 

"Great. Thank you." She flopped on the sofa, coat and all, but didn't get comfortable. "It’s about John."

"What is?" Sherlock tilted his head, frowned. Everything was about John, but what was it to Molly? What issues would she have concerning John?

"My visit," she answered impatiently. "This." she indicated with a hand gesture at herself and the living room, as if the combination was the most alien thing. Which it was actually. When nothing was coming forth from the man across the room, she continued, "I needed to make sure that you won't brew up any foolish ideas in your silly head again. You know, I wouldn’t be able to stand this again. Not going to happen. Not on my watch." She shook her head and straightened her shoulders as if to dare Sherlock to contradict her. 

"Care to elaborate?" Sherlock had a hard time to stay patient and grasp her intentions.

"Sherlock, listen." She cleared her throat and seemed to prepare herself for what she had to say. "Greg phoned me and told me that you're back at the flat."

"Greg…?" Sherlock started to interrogate, but Molly looked at him, pleadingly.

"Just… let me get this out and I won't bother you any longer, okay? I just… you know… this time I can't stand the feeling again of not saying anything even though I know better. I can't keep my mouth shut and let you dig your own grave again." She winced, "ah, sorry, that was not very… uhm, yeah, sorry." She threw a hesitant smile his way. "What I actually want to say, Sherlock, is… I've been there, when you had to disappear. And I still don't regret helping you because who knows what dumbassed bullshit you'd come up with otherwise. What I _do_ regret though is watching you suffer, to watch John suffer, without being able to do anything about it! And now," she inhaled shakily, seemed to gather all her courage, "Sherlock, I've seen him, I've talked to him. You can't do this to him, again. And I just _know_ that you're suffering, too!! You're not yourself without him."

She watched him for a moment. He had to lower his gaze, couldn't stand to be scrutinised any longer. Apparently he was more transparent than he had intended. Or Molly was even more clever than he had given her credit for. He had nothing to say in his defence and her words didn't need confirmation as they were nothing but the truth. 

When she spoke again, she sounded much calmer, much more compassionate, much more reassuring. A friend. A real friend, Sherlock realised.

“Just text him, Sherlock. Phone him. Do _something_ while there is still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, Sherlock: it’s gone before you know it.” she said, roamed his face with her gaze like a lovers caress before their last goodbye. When she met his eyes there was the slightest tint of melancholy, although barely noticeable beneath the overpowering fondness, trust, encouragement, support. Sherlock had to swallow back a lump forming in his throat. How did he deserve this? Trust? Support? Friends? 

"I did though," he croaked, his mouth dry. "Text him, I mean." Molly looked surprised. "Well, to be honest, he called me first. Wanted to talk, told me that…” he trailed off, blushed and had to turn his face away in embarrassment. 

“Do you have the first idea how lucky you are? He’s _out_ there, Sherlock. He _likes_ you,” she said emphatically, enthusiastically. “And you're _alive,_ Sherlock!” She looked at him, intensely. “Not many people come back from the death to get a second chance. Sherlock… don’t waste it.” she whispered.

Sherlock nodded, swallowed hard. He felt slightly sick, they way one was after too many drinks, or on a rollercoaster.

“He’s…” he swallowed against the raising feeling of being sucked into a maelstrom, “... he’s coming over here, Molly.” he said under his breath. Molly’s face lit up with relief and euphory.

“Sherlock… oh my God… that’s… that’s great!” She jumped up and squirreled her way around the couch table. “Wow! What am I doing here? I’ll just be…”

“I’m scared.” Sherlock said quietly. Molly stopped in her attempts to leave and stood still, watching Sherlock. “I’m scared like never before, Molly.” He looked up, locked eyes with her.

What she saw there must have been enough for her to stride over and engulf a surprised Sherlock in her arms. As tiny and tender her physique was, as tight was her embrace. Sherlock felt held and protected in a way he would have never expected. Slowly he relaxed and returned the hug. Shortly after Molly loosened her grip, stepped back and let go of Sherlock. She looked at him, then leaned forward and brushed a tiny peck on his cheek. A smile playing around her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes. 

“Get the hell on with it, Sherlock Holmes.” she said, turned and then left.

*****

At the corner of Baker Street he stopped his stride, nerves suddenly prickling up his neck and over his scalp. Looking diagonally across the street he could see Speedy's red awning. Impressive how different such a simple sight can feel. Not long ago in the rain it had felt like desperation and dread, a few days later it had felt like loss and emptiness. Now though, it felt like hope, like confidence, like a thousand bees buzzing through his body. He took a deep steadying breath and continued his path. When he got closer, crossed the street, he thought he saw the curtains of the upstairs flat move. No sign of a long lean figure hovering behind them though. The dropping feeling in his stomach made him aware of how much he had hoped for Sherlock to stand there, looking out of the window, waiting for him. Maybe Sherlock didn't expect him after all? Maybe the curtains had been wavered by a draft? 

Sniffing once, shaking off the insecurity creeping in—not the time for it—John fastened his steps, treading with more force than necessary. Almost marching, soldier today, into battle. Determined to fight for it. Determined to win it. The opponent to defeat was a tough one though—fear. 

Nearing the shiny black door, John caught the faint sound of a violin carrying through the air. It made his heart beat faster. He had missed hearing it so much for far too long. Even before their massive argument, their separation, Sherlock hadn't played much anymore. He hadn't picked up his beloved instrument like in the early days, randomly playing tunes he loved or John loved just to indulge them. Before the fall it had inextricably belonged to their life together. It had been part of their connection, had added to their closeness—like a shared secret between only the two of them. Of course, there had also been the 2am torturing of the strings, but John missed even that. Wasn't that, too, something that belonged to a life with Sherlock Holmes? Just as empty fridges, stacks of unpaid bills, having to bring the weirdest garments of disguise to the cleaner? Just as ruined tv-shows, night time take away, an uncommented new bought jumper on his bed? Just as breakfast with newspaper? Just as two chairs in front of the fireplace? He missed all of it. He missed Sherlock. 

The violin sounds getting more and more distinct, John could tell the melody Sherlock was playing was unfamiliar to him. Naturally he didn't know his entire repertoire, that'd be impossible, but he recognised that this wasn't one of their favourites. It was beautiful though, heartfelt, but at the same time it was sad, sounded torn, wavering, alternating, between slow and rushed, loud and hushed. Sherlock was playing sad music. John remembered another time when Sherlock had played sad music. Now he wondered if he had interpreted it all wrong. On the one hand he hoped he had, on the other hand deep regret settled in his bones about all the missed opportunities, about all the time that had passed. 

Finally, he stood in front of the door. He knocked, not wanting to interrupt the playing by the door bell. Somehow he was certain, that he would be heard anyway. He didn't have to wait long before, true to his expectation, the front door opened. Mrs Hudson let him in, atypically quiet. She didn't say anything, so neither did he, but the way she beamed at him said more than a million words. The joy, the hope, the motherly love, the warm welcome in her eyes—it was contagious. It made his insides burn with impatience to get up the stairs, with confidence to get another chance, with certainty to do the right thing. He nodded thankfully at her even though she hadn't done anything. Not right now maybe, but all along the way she had been their greatest support. 

Carefully yet focused he made his way up the stairs. Intentionally not avoiding the one creaking step. The sound filled him with the tender feeling of coming home and the excitement of a new beginning. 

******

Molly left and Sherlock needed a moment to collect himself. He would never have expected Molly to be the one to shake him. He didn't even understand why exactly it was. Perhaps because she had always silently endured what Sherlock had thrown her way, never spoken up—until now. Perhaps because she had proven to understand Sherlock better than he had expected her to, shown that she knew him on a level far beyond just acquaintances would. Perhaps because he had seen in her eyes that she still held some affection for him but nonetheless supported him to find happiness elsewhere. However most of all, what shocked him into silence was her trust. As she had said—she had been there, helped him, seen him. She had witnessed on the front line what he was capable of. What he had done. To John. What he was doing again. She had said herself, that she had seen John suffering, saw him suffering now, knowing that it was Sherlock who had done that to him. And still, she had come here, deliberately to tell him to move things on with John. She told him not to hurt John again… and encouraged him to get closer nonetheless? She trusted him to get this right? Despite everything? 

It contradicted everything he thought to know. It was the exact opposite of what he had expected. And still, somehow, it was everything he needed to hear. Somehow it weighed more than all lectures of his brother ever had, more than all the berating of Mrs Hudson, all the scolding of Lestrade. Because it was Molly. Quiet, cautious, insecure, lovely and loving Molly. 

Deep within he knew she was right. Deep within he knew what he had to do. What he would do. And he almost fainted because of the lightheadedness the raising anxiousness caused. Mind dizzy and whirling, it left him reeling and a bit wobbly on his knees. His first instinct was to flee. He knew he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to.

Without the immediate option to process his emotions and pour them into dance he felt trapped within himself, pacing like a panther behind bars in his own mind. His skin felt prickly, he became over-sensitive for every sensation, every impression, every stimulus around him. He recognised the tells—fingers twitching and picking at the cuticles; biting the inside of his cheek until the satisfying taste of iron filled his mouth; tight panicky feeling in his chest with an increased respiratory rate—clear signs for hyperventilation. He was bordering a panic attack. If he didn’t interrupt it, he would risk a meltdown of some sort, which would leave him incapable of interacting with people. With John. He couldn’t risk that. He had to do something. There was only one other option.

His fingertips tingled when they touched the smooth wood his violin was made of. He let them linger for a moment, brushing lightly over the curves of the corpus. He hadn’t played in a very long time. Too dangerous, for exactly the same reason he had to play now. All his emotions were poured into it, he wasn’t able to hide anything when he was playing. He was one with the music. It was a give and take between him and the violin. When his hand was curled around the neck and the wood was warming under his skin; when the strings were tight and rough underneath his fingertips in contrast to the satiny ebony surface of the fingerboard; when the vibrations of the corpus were merging into the quiver of his own body. The taughtly tightened hairs of the bow brushing, stroking, guided by his unconsciousness, evoking a variety of sounds he wasn’t aware existed. It had been no help when John had been sitting in his chair, silently listening. Sherlock had been able to feel John’s gaze on his back—transparent, body and soul. Although it wasn’t any better without the man's physical presence, when the John Sherlock was playing about and playing for existed only in his imagination. Too easily the lines got blurred where imagination ended and music began, where Sherlock's body melted into sentiment, where the instrument became John. 

When he had come back after the fall, he couldn't risk to let John see. He had stopped playing. Excuses of too long a time not played, of too little practise had. Sometimes John had asked, but he had never insisted. Now though, it was his only option to manage the riot of emotions. 

He tenderly picked up his violin and tuned it carefully, a process to get familiar with the beloved instrument again. When he placed it against his neck, lowered his chin onto the holder, a shiver of recognition ran through him. It felt like coming home. He let his fingers get used to the instinctively known motions again, tried to open up his mind and his heart and let everything that spilled over flow into his bow to get translated into music. 

When he realised that it threatened to drown him, that it was too much at once, he tried to channel it, to guide it. He tried to make use of the well known tunes of the grandmasters of classical music, of his personal favourites of modern compositions, but his mind wandered, he got distracted. He didn’t dare to access his own compositions, too charged, too many spectres hiding there. 

He paused, thought for a moment and decided he needed accompaniment, something to guide him, to support him, a thread to hold on to. He looked up his favourite artists, made a choice of songs and started to play along when the first sounds filled the air.

When he let himself fall back into the music, able to experience it inside and out, he felt himself calm down, centred, grounded. This was good. This would help him to keep his composure. Perhaps this could even help him to say what needed to be said.

******

When he entered the living room, Sherlock stood in front of the windows, facing away from him. Even though the man didn't turn or acknowledge him otherwise, John was absolutely certain that Sherlock had noticed him. It was the minuscule shift in the tense line of his shoulders and a note played a fraction of a second too late that gave him away.

John got the message and didn't interrupt. If Sherlock knew he was here, he'd pay him attention eventually. Sherlock was the one who had given John the sign, had made the decision to meet; so Sherlock would turn towards him when he was ready. John was sure about it. 

That aside, it gave him the opportunity to watch Sherlock without restraint. This way he was able to enjoy the lines of the slim silhouette against the incoming morning light. The soft sway, the wafting of burgundy dressing gown. He could make out a white dress shirt underneath and was thrown back to the last time he had seen Sherlock in such a shirt, in admittedly a slightly different state and frankly considerably less clothed. Here, like this though, he wasn’t any less… well… beautiful. The contrast of the white of the shirt and the red of the gown to the black of the trouser legs peeking out from under it and the dark mob of curls on the other end was striking, as if deliberately arranged. Bathed in light, the tips of said curls formed a glowing halo around Sherlock’s head, made him look like a piece of fine art. John couldn’t suppress the little gasp escaping his mouth. Also, he didn’t want to, he had nothing to hide. 

He had seen this before, several times. Sherlock playing his violin to be able to think, to process. As an outlet for his emotions. Only, he had never thought he would be the reason for it at some point. Or, in hindsight, hadn't he taken Sherlock's playing for what it was? Sherlock had said, or rather the songs they shared these days had, that he wanted a second chance. So had Sherlock, just as John, missed his first one? 

The memories of a New Year's Eve a couple of years ago forced themselves onto John's mind. Them in the living room after a particularly turbulent and eventful and extremely emotional day, nearly in the same position as now. Sherlock playing, John listening, watching, waiting, estimating. _'How do we feel about it,'_ John had asked. Sherlock hadn’t said a word apart from a solemn _‘Happy New Year, John’_. John had been left confused, disappointed, and yes… now he could admit it… heartbroken. Now though he wondered, had Sherlock told him how he had felt after all? Had John heard the music, had he been told but he hadn’t listened? 

Looking at it and listening to it from this new angle, John made his way slowly into the living room, closed the door carefully behind him. He put the coffee cups down on the couch table, shed his jacket and dropped it on the sofa without leaving Sherlock out of his sight. When John cautiously took one step after the other to get past the couch table, Sherlock seamlessly transitioned from one melody into another. John was aware that it wasn't Sherlock's usual repertoire he was playing, also not improvising as he often did in the early days. The slow wistful string of notes of this new melody softened John's steps as if he were walking on a cloud, the syrupy yearning made him slow down until he came to a halt in the middle of the room. Close enough to notice how Sherlock's breathing quickened the moment his hands and arms stilled and the melody gave way for [a thoughtful female voice](https://youtu.be/os9Etbm5xCU). Even though the violin remained silent, Sherlock didn't lower it, stayed in place, like a wordless request, like a display that he wasn't finished yet, that he wasn't yet ready. 

**  
  
**

**_There's some things I should have said_**

**_I was too afraid_**

**_It was just so hard to let you know_**

**_Now it's all too late_**

John was in no way surprised that Sherlock had fallen back to relying on someone else's words. Sherlock was even worse with words than John himself. What John heard though was only confirming what he had suspected. 

John wanted to say _'I know, Sherlock, I know. Me too.'_ and also _'No, it isn't! It isn't too late! Say it, I want to know!'_

But the moment he was about to voice his thoughts, as if he sensed it, Sherlock picked up to play again. As if to stop him. _'Not yet, John. Wait a moment. I'm not ready yet.'_

**_What we had was beautiful_**

**_I didn't want to wreck it all_**

**_Every day I think about the truth_**

Sherlock's playing was careful and soft, background noise to the words, his body leaning into the tune nonetheless, every single note displayed in the curve of his back or the bow of his head. 

_'It was beautiful, Sherlock! I want it back! I want you back! What is your truth, Sherlock? Please, tell me!'_

**_I wish I was_**

**_I wish I was_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

_'Why aren't you? Please, Sherlock! I wish you would! Be brave, Sherlock! You_ are _brave!'_

The sounds coming from the violin never breaking off, simmering in the background, like a fire kept alive at night, preserving the embers, to relight the flames in the morning.

**_I wish I was_**

**_I wish I was_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

**_Brave enough, brave enough_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

John hadn't noticed that he had slowly stepped closer. His hand already resting on the back of one of the chairs at the living room table. 

As if alarmed Sherlock suddenly threw himself fully into the music. It made his curls bounce with every agitated strike of his bow, with every high-pitched note, chased by the relentless beat. It was as passionate as his dancing and John could now see that it was and had always been the same thing. Sherlock bursting from emotions with no other way to express them. 

*******

He could feel the same intense prickle in his neck as always when John was listening. He knew without looking that John’s eyes were fixed on him. When he heard the gasp somewhere behind his back he realised that John was as tense as Sherlock himself. Sherlock vibrated with anticipation. He held on to his violin, the only thing to pin him in the here and now. By following the given melody, he avoided drifting off into a past full of regrets or a future full of anxieties.

The intensity of the interlude pulled him along, spurred him on and he could feel himself being filled by the vigour and forte of the tune. Where there had been a void left by uncertainty and doubts, now a calmness and confidence settled in. He wasn’t fully composed yet, not yet steady enough. He needed a bit more of this to be able to uphold this strength in the face of an unknown path ahead. 

**_Stripped away the walls I built_**

**_Like no one ever has_**

**_The hardest part was never known_**

**_If we were meant to last_**

He still needed to know if John was sincere; that John chose him, aware of all his shortcomings, of the little he had to offer.

John had to be aware that this couldn't be just an experiment, that he’d have to be here to stay or not at all, that it was vital to Sherlock.

**_What we had was beautiful_**

**_I didn't want to wreck it all_**

**_Every day I think about the truth_**

What if he'd ruin it after all? John also needed to understand what he meant to Sherlock, what he would be to Sherlock, that Sherlock might suffocate him with its gravity.

He didn't yet dare to love John with everything he had to give. He'd never forgive himself, would never be able to live with it, if he'd ruin it, if he'd break John Watson.

**_I wish I was_**

**_I wish I was_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

He wanted to. God, how much he wanted to. If only John would be brave enough for both of them. If only John would dare to take Sherlock's hand and jump. Together. And wouldn't let go.

**_I wish I was_**

**_I wish I was_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

**_Brave enough, brave enough_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

Sherlock was still facing the window. He had closed his eyes, not wanting to watch the world outside of 221b Baker Street right now. Didn't want to be distracted by anything that didn't matter. There was really only one point of interest.

Sherlock could feel that John had come closer. The fierce sound of his violin had muffled all other noise, but he could sense a shift in the air around him. As if the consistency had changed, like the charged air before a thunderstorm, like the smell of snow before it started to fall, like the warmth of home before one had even opened the door. 

Sherlock's breath came shorter, didn't fully reach his lungs. He felt the dizziness from earlier this day. Although this time it felt different somehow. It felt like it had never felt before. It was unsettling. It was frightening.

******

John had been pulled towards Sherlock like a magnet. Slowly but steadily, without hesitation, without faltering, he had moved closer. He couldn't remember taking steps though, it had just sort of happened.

He was standing right behind Sherlock now. He could feel the air between them waft, like standing next to a fire, too close yet not close enough. Sparks flying into the air, holding the thrill of danger yet being the most beautiful thing glowing against the dark night sky.

**_Brave enough to love you_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

_'I'm not afraid of the fire anymore. Sherlock, I'm not afraid of stepping closer, feel the heat, see more sparks.'_

**_I wish I was_**

**_I wish I was_**

_'I survived fire, Sherlock. Because of you! You survived fire. For me.'_

**_Brave enough to love you_**

**_Brave enough, brave enough_**

**_Brave enough to love you_**

_'Because you're brave, Sherlock! You've always been the bravest!'_

Sherlock couldn't hear him yet. No use to say it all out loud. John hoped that he was thinking loud enough, that Sherlock would understand anyway. That Sherlock would know.

******

Sherlock knew it before he felt it. 

A warm hand reached for his shoulder, settled, nearly burned him. Stopped his bow from flying over the strings. He lowered the violin. The melody ebbing away. The loud silence that followed telling him that it was alright. John was here, John was reaching for him. John had taken the last step.

He inhaled shakily. All his senses on high alert, all his barriers down, unguarded. 

But it was good. He felt good. They would be good.

He was ready.

****** 

Sherlock didn't jerk, didn't flinch at the touch.

He turned, slowly but confident. John's heart did a little jump, skipped a beat, excited at the promise it held.

The movement broke their contact, but only shortly. John's hand found its way automatically to Sherlock's other shoulder where it settled as if it had always been there, as if it belonged there. 

John looked at Sherlock, scanned his face, took in everything that his eyes showed willingly, without restraint. His breath was taken away by the sheer amount, the plethora and intensity of emotions he saw there. He held Sherlock's gaze, drowned in his eyes. Waited. Gave Sherlock space to take the next step, like a dance.

***** 

When John's hand, warm and steady, moved upwards and cupped his cheek, Sherlock's eyelids fluttered shut of their own accord. He couldn't help it. Immediately he pulled them open again, he couldn't miss one second of looking at John, of drinking in his sight. 

Something deep within him shifted, moved, settled into place. A perfectly fitting piece of a puzzle. Completing a picture.

****** 

Sherlock leaned into his touch, resting trustingly against the palm of John's hand. John didn't move, held him steadily, secure. Traced his thumb slowly, tenderly over Sherlock's cheek. 

"John." was the only thing Sherlock said, his voice low and soft. 

And John thought, _'Now I know what his message sounded like. Now I know what it meant.'_

**  
***end of part2***  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://youtu.be/os9Etbm5xCU)


	17. Brave For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew they’d done it. They’d taken the first hurdle. The biggest one, because from here on it was merely looking for the right path. But at least they were facing the same direction. They’d go that path together. That’s all that counted. They’d get there.
> 
> Now though, they needed to get moving. Facing the goal isn’t the same as reaching the goal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> I'm very pleased to present you this chapter in time with my update schedule!!! I wouldn't have expected that to be possible, but here we are... mostly due to my extraordinary betas!!! I can't promise the same for the next chapters though... To make it all less frustrating (for you and for me) I'll probably rather post (more) short-ish chapters with short breaks than long-ish chapters with long breaks. I hope that is in all your interest; that'd also mean that I have to up the chapter count as we go (as you can already see happening 😄...)
> 
> Furthermore you'll realise within this chapter that the songs will get a slightly different meaning. They've chosen them, they've talked through them as long as they were separated. Now they're together in one room the music will still be there, even more, it'll become one with the story, it'll be there to add to the plot/athmosphere and... *Sherlock voice* "It just sort of happens..." *Sherlock shrug*  
> For you to see the difference:  
> usual placement of the lyrics in the text = chosen by the boys  
> lyrics placed on the right = "just happens" 
> 
> From now on there'll also be a playlist from the current chapter as well as a "Shatter Me"-playlist containing all songs used up to the current chapter. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this new development of the story as much as I do. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone,  
> Sending you lots of love,  
> me 💞
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song(s) within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

*****part 3*****

**We**

They stood there for a moment neither of them knew or cared about how long it lasted, frozen in time and space, just looking at each other, sharing the bubble that enclosed them. 

Eventually, John dared to move his hand. On first instinct he brushed the curl that had fallen into Sherlock's face, from his forehead behind his ear. This was one of the instincts he had suppressed a million times in the last couples of years. It felt freeing to finally give in. A heretofore unperceived weight was lifted off of him when Sherlock didn't object. Rather the opposite actually. He closed his eyes, seemed to chase the touch, not unlike a cat. This realisation warmed John from the inside with a fuzzy happiness.

"You brought coffee." Sherlock's low voice broke the silence. 

"Yes, I did." John nodded but sounded a bit surprised at the reminder, he had almost forgotten. Not exactly the first words he had expected in this moment.

"Russell Square." Sherlock stated, opened his eyes and immediately pinned John with his gaze. 

"Ha, yeah, suppose that's true." John blushed slightly, he shrugged one shoulder in self defense, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

"Sentiment." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the effect was ruined by the fond smirk playing around his lips.

"Thank God, you're above that, Mr. Virtuoso!" John teased. 

Silence fell again. Charged, but promising. Tense, but cosy. 

In the end it was John who broke the spell, starting to feel awkward, his hand against Sherlock's cheek, occasionally trading his fingers through the hair above his ear.

He didn't step back though, for it was something he was not willing to do anymore, at least not in regard to Sherlock. All he wanted was to take that last step forwards and close the last remaining gap between them, but he _knew_ it would ruin them if they gave in and dived into the depth of their feelings without bearing through the uncomfortable part first. They couldn’t just brush it off, they couldn’t avoid it. 

"We need to talk, Sherlock," John said, softly. 

The reply was a deep sigh.

"Yes. I fear that might be true." Sherlock nodded and lowered his eyes, his chin dropping to his chest. He seemed to slightly slump down and retreat; even if not physically, but emotionally. John could feel it just as strongly. _'No',_ John thought, slightly panicking, _'we haven't even started yet. Sherlock, don't do this, please!'_ His heart rate sped up. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't. Now that they'd come so far, they _would_ talk. He had to find a way!

He put a finger under Sherlock's chin to raise it, to be able to see his face and search his eyes.

"None of _that,_ okay?" he said, gently. "This is for us, Sherlock. For whatever 'us' means… will mean... in this case. This is important. To me. Please, let us get it right this time!" He almost pleaded. Sherlock scanned his face, held John's gaze for a stretched moment that almost killed him. Then swallowed and nodded faintly. 

John nodded back, gave him a small but heartening and encouraging smile. 

They both, reluctant to put any space between them, moved slowly. John picked up the abandoned cups of coffee and gestured towards the kitchen with raised eyebrows. Sherlock nodded in confirmation and nervously rummaged in the kitchen cupboards before he quit his fruitless search with a sigh and flopped down on the chair closest to him. John smiled knowingly at this display of agitation. 

“Don’t need biscuits anyway,” he smirked at Sherlock, who smiled coyly back and looked slightly embarrassed about having been that transparent. “Or do you have a raging need for food right now?” John winked at him and Sherlock only huffed but couldn’t hide his smile, because they both knew that food would be the absolutely last thing on Sherlock's mind right now. With that the tense atmosphere in the room got a bit lighter, breathing was a bit easier.

They settled at the table, both holding onto their paper coffee cups, silently looking at each other, until Sherlock took the first sip and pulled a face.

“Uhg… cold!” He said, disgusted. “How long did it take you to get here from Russell Square?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly pay attention. Was a bit distracted by other thoughts, you know…,” John tilted his head. “I make us a fresh one each, yeah?” 

He stood without waiting for an answer. It gave him a bit of time and they wouldn’t have to look awkwardly at each other waiting for one of them to start talking. He busied himself with starting the coffee maker and was surprised how calming the process was. It felt familiar, it felt reassuring, it felt as if he belonged here. Sherlock, too, seemed to relax with the well-known every day routine around him and John finally felt safe to speak. Feeling the cheat sheet almost as a heavy weight in his back pocket, he tried to picture it, mentally taking the first junction towards ‘promising start’ away from ‘looks like rejection’. The next branch he aimed at was ‘hesitant but willing’. Course of action: ‘make sure what Sherlock’s intentions of the meet up are’.

“So…” he started, his back still towards Sherlock to give him some space, “how are we going to do this? What did you imagine? What do you need from me?” He turned slightly to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. The man didn’t look back, but John saw him shrugging.

“I have no idea, John. It’s not as if I have a plan or made a spread sheet or something.” Sherlock said and John had to hold back a cough, almost choking. He blushed and was grateful that he could hide his face pretending to see to the coffee. _‘Well, great start…’_ , he thought in self-irony. 

John poured the freshly brewed coffee and added milk and sugar to their liking. He brought the cups over to the table, handed Sherlock his, who held it in one hand while the other nervously fumbled with the edges of the newspaper lying on the table. John sat down again, looking expectantly at Sherlock, who intensely watched the paper getting crumpled and torn.

“We have to start somewhere though…” He tried, tentatively.

“That is undoubtedly true, John. Brilliant deduction.” Sherlock said flatly. 

“Sherlock…” John drew his eyebrows together.

“Yeah… no… sorry,” Sherlock said, quietly.

“I mean, if you’re not ready, if you’d rather…”

“No, John! No. I…” Sherlock seemed to squirm internally, “I want this, John.” He looked up at John. Face open and honest. “I want this. I just don’t know… how. I’m not good at... I’m not good at this.” 

He looked lost and without thinking John reached over and laid his hand over Sherlock’s, which stopped his fumbling immediately. It was meant to reassure him, to calm him, but the moment skin touched skin John felt the air around them getting charged again. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he looked slightly panicked, which surprised John considering the acceptance of John’s touch he had shown earlier. John already wanted to pull back again, cursing his own over-eagerness, when he saw the level of panic in Sherlock’s eyes only rise at the realisation that John was about to let go. Confused, he left his hand where it was and slightly squeezed Sherlock’s to show him that he had understood. Just holding his hand in place, very intently not moving it, John looked at Sherlock, signaled him _‘I don’t mind’_. 

After a moment Sherlock nodded, barely visible. John smiled at him, reveling in the feeling of Sherlock’s cold skin slowly warming under his touch.

“Alright?” He asked, voice low.

“Alright.” Sherlock said under his breath. 

*****

He didn’t even know why this was different, but the moment John had reached for his hand the whole gravity of the situation seemed to crash down on him. This was ‘The Moment’. Talking was imminent. The course of everything important in his life would be set within the next hour. Hours? How long would it take them to bring light into the darkness of years? 

Then, of course, John was alarmed by his reaction but when John wanted to pull his hand back, being the considerate person he was, Sherlock’s distress had only increased, because… had he already ruined it? They hadn’t even had a chance to clear up _anything_ and already Sherlock had made a mess of it. Exactly what he had been afraid of. But John had seen, John had understood. The sensation of John’s warm skin still on his hand, the short subtle squeeze telling him ‘I’m here, I’ll stay’ was all the reassurance he needed. John wouldn’t leave. They still had a chance. 

So Sherlock gathered all his strength, all his courage, and spoke up. If he didn’t dare now, who knew if he’d ever would.

“John, you have to know, no matter how this will go, because,” he looked up, met John’s gaze which held the warmth and comfort of an afternoon wrapped in blankets on the sofa, “I can’t promise anything, John. And not because I don’t want to, it’s just… I have absolutely no expertise or resources on how to do this. I’m not good at it. I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know if I’m doing it right and…” John held his hand a bit firmer, still gentle, still careful, but grounding. Sherlock took a deep breath and with the air leaving his lungs the words left his mouth, “It’s so very important to me. Will you keep that in mind? Please? Because the importance of something never determined the damage I might inflict…”

“Sherlock. Shhhh… don’t!” It should have been annoying to be shushed. John Watson though managed to make it sound soothing and actually reassuring. So he stopped. Waited. He felt his heartbeat slow down, the tightness in his throat ease. He understood. There was no need to defend himself, John already knew. He took this risk willingly. The only important thing right now was to explain. Because ‘knowing’ didn’t necessarily mean ‘understanding’.

The flash of a memory. John Watson, furious, angry, hurt, in a shady restaurant, piercing him with his eyes, stabbing his soul. "I don’t care _how_ you faked it, Sherlock. I wanna know _why."_ Right. _'Right. I have to do better this time.'_ Where to start though? _'Where to start? Maybe just...'_

“It’s just so much, John.”

“I know.”

“It is _too_ much… I don’t know where to start.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t know how! It’s…” Already the words started to fail him again. They whirled in his head, but didn’t find the way out through the labyrinth of his emotions.

“I know.”

“I’m… I’m scared, John.” he whispered. “I’m so scared to do it wrong.”

“I know.”

“How can you be so calm?”

“I’m not.”

“Then how…”

John reached over, gently freed the neglected cup of coffee out of Sherlock’s crushing hold and set it next to his cup. He slowly and deliberately took Sherlock’s other hand too, holding both, looking at Sherlock. This time Sherlock accepted the touch without hesitation, even turned his hands palms up and tightened his grip the moment John’s hand settled into his, like holding onto a lifeline. It felt good. It felt right. It felt secure. It felt like a closed circle. Perfect.

“I just know, Sherlock, there is really no other option for me. This. This is what I want! No way I’m wasting this chance! So, why fret about it? We can do this! We can!” John said with emphasis, slightly leaning over the table, closer to Sherlock, who was able to observe the fascinating non-decisive colour of John’s irises this way. Beautiful! 

Abruptly Sherlock's focus shifted and narrowed down when he felt John's thumb slowly stroking over the side of his hand palm. Fascinated he watched the miracle of the tiny movement which held such an immense impact. The sturdy doctor’s hand brushing slightly against his own. He wasn't entirely sure if it was intentional but he certainly wouldn't complain. When John spoke again, Sherlock's eyes snapped up to John's, which knowingly glittered with mirth. Intentional then. Even better. 

"And honestly, Sherlock? I have no fucking clue either!" he chuckled, quietly, but Sherlock could feel the effect all the way through his hands. The almost non-existent shaking enough to stir his own mood, to make something shift, to set his mind into motion. 

"How about we just take one step after the other? Figure it out together?” John continued, “Because… that's what this is about, yeah? Together?" John raised his eyebrows slightly. 

There was a pause. He was seeking for confirmation then? _‘Really John, do keep up. Of course it is about ‘together’, that’s why we are here after all. Isn’t it?’_ Sherlock just so prevented to roll his eyes, because… 

No! He had to stop this! This was not about keeping up old patterns. This was not about their usual manner of communicating. Because that had led to nothing. It had only led them to the mess they found themselves in right now. He had to do better. He still had to do better. Why was it so hard to break old habits? Why was the relapse always the easier option? Easier perhaps, but from experience he knew that it also was—almost always—more painful. And lonely. He had lied to John. More than once of course. Constantly. But the moment he had been most vulnerable, most afraid, he had told John the biggest lie. Alone didn’t protect him, no. Rather, always when he had tried to protect himself, in the end he had always ended up alone. It was a pattern. It had become his normality. He had started to be a step ahead and make it his state of being. Only now, he wasn’t alone. John had absolutely incomprehensibly come back. John was miraculously still here. With him. Together. They’ve had enough of alone. 

He took a deep breath, shifted a bit on his chair, never letting go of John’s hands. He never again would.

“Yes, John. Together.” He smiled at John.

*****

_‘Yes.’_ John thought. _‘Yes! Yesyesyesyesyes!!!’_

He knew they’d done it. They’d taken the first hurdle. The biggest one, because from here on it was merely looking for the right path. But at least they were facing the same direction. They’d go that path together. That’s all that counted. They’d get there.

Now though, they needed to get moving. Facing the goal isn’t the same as reaching the goal. John thought about his flowchart again and realised that they’d just taken a big leap. He was already half way down to the bottom of the sheet and heading in the right direction. Joy bubbled up in his belly and the tingling of barely contained anticipation spread through his body. _‘Not yet. Don’t jinx it. Calm down!’_ He tried to call himself to order, but he couldn’t help the hope bubbling over. However, knowing Sherlock, he was aware that it wasn’t an easy road ahead. 

“Right then,” he nodded, couldn’t hold back the grin spreading on his lips. He saw that it was contagious, Sherlock's smile started to stretch, parted his lips slightly, formed that dimple on his left cheek John loved so much and the laugh lines around Sherlock’s eyes appear, which were proof that the detective wasn’t as gloomy as he always tried to pretend to be. Yes, this was his Sherlock. The one he had been looking for for months. Years, if one counted the time Sherlock had been away. John didn’t allow his thoughts to go there. This was now and Sherlock was here—right in front of him. Within reach. Not only that, but holding his hands!

Suddenly sharply aware of what they were doing—holding hands, something they’d never done before, something so small and yet so powerful, not just one but a thousand steps forward—a shiver ran along John’s arms. Spreading from their joined hands, tingling over his skin, settling in his chest. 

He watched them, their hands. So different and yet so matching. Sitting across from each other caused a weird angle for first time hand-holding, but it also made him much more aware of it. Each little detail he registered very consciously. Sherlock’s long slender fingers wrapped his hand almost completely, his thumb tangled between John’s fingers. One slim finger lying flatly along his pulse point on his wrist. What else. John smiled. His own hand looked so much smaller in Sherlock’s big one and yet it was clearly John who was the one holding, steadying. He could live with that. His fingers reached Sherlock’s wrist just so and he ran his fingertips along the crease parting hand from wrist. How soft Sherlock’s skin was here despite all his reckless and dangerous behaviour during cases, despite what he must have endured when he had been away. John marvelled at the mere opportunity to be able to observe this, to be allowed to do this. He did it again. And again. Running his fingers back and forth along that slim line, across that smooth skin. He saw goose bumps rising on Sherlock’s forearms and looked up. 

Sherlock looked at him intently, observed him, eyes dark, lips slightly parted.

John swallowed. Talking, yes. That’s what they were supposed to do. _‘Right, Watson. Focus!’_

“Okay, then. What about this?” he cleared his throat, “I’ll start.” and immediately he felt Sherlock’s relief about being released from the duty of kicking off their conversation. Good, for now. Maybe Sherlock would ease into the conversation over time.

“I’ll start with the—to me—most important thing.” And back was Sherlock’s tension, but John held his hands, held his gaze, tried to hold him in the here and now. He never averted Sherlock’s eyes when he said, “Sherlock, I need you to stay.” Sherlock looked a bit puzzled. Apparently he had expected something else. But then, that was the whole point, wasn’t it? So he went on, “We’ll talk and see about everything else, but… to me, the most important thing is, to have you here with me! Sherlock, don’t leave me behind again!” Their gazes linked, both still cautious about the others' reaction, they sat in the silent kitchen. “Please. Stay. Here, with me.” John tugged slightly on Sherlock’s hands, trying to further support his plea. “Will you? Stay?” he whispered in the end, when Sherlock only kept looking.

“Yes, John. Yes. I will.” Sherlock finally said, low, quiet. 

John hadn’t expected the immense relief rushing through his body feeling like a wave crashing over him, choking him, tears welling up, threatening to spill over. His head sagged forward, trying to hide, although he knew it was impossible and not what he wanted. His forehead bumped on the table between their hands. He tried to breathe evenly to avoid the tears; needed just a moment to regain composure. When suddenly Sherlock loosened his grip, John already started to panic, but only a moment later he felt fingers tentatively threading through the hair at the back of his head. He inhaled shakily, didn’t dare to move despite feeling slightly awkward lying on the table. His scalp prickling under Sherlock’s touch, John was almost aware of every single hair moved by Sherlock’s fingers.

“I’m sorry, John.” he heard Sherlock’s very small voice not much later. “So very sorry.”

John raised his head, looked at Sherlock, showed everything, saw everything. Deep regret. On both ends, equally.

“I know.” He whispered back, “Me, too.” Fixing each other with their eyes they exchanged their silent apologies, which allowed them to forgive, where no amount of spoken sorries would make up for everything they’d done to each other.

“I just need to understand,” John said, continuing their silent communication out loud. 

Sherlock nodded. 

“Then you have to tell me...”

Sherlock nodded.

“... and to be honest…”

Sherlock nodded. He was back to torturing the newspaper with the hand not holding John’s anymore.

“You _do_ know that you have to use words for that, yeah?” John teased lightly.

“John…” Sherlock winced. “I don’t know…”

“You know, it’s true what Greg said…” John interrupted. “It’s really not that difficult,” John chuckled, “just open your mouth, voice and all, and say it. Easy.”

“Greg?” Sherlock frowned.

“Not the point. What I want to say is... just say it, yeah?” John tried to encourage Sherlock. “Just say… something. Anything! Start somewhere…”

“It’s _not_ that easy, John. That’s the whole problem!” Sherlock said, tensely. He pulled his hands back and folded them, leaning heavily on his forearms. “You know perfectly well that I’m not good at explaining myself. I never find the appropriate words, I lack the skill of…”

“No, Sherlock, listen,” John stopped him, again, getting slightly irritated, his patience wearing thin, “that’s bullshit… _if_ someone is skilled with words, then it’s _you_. Have you heard yourself lately? Damn… vocabulary of a fucking Victorian dictionary! You know perfectly well how to use your words when you want to dissect someone at a crime scene! Rattling off deductions at lightning speed… Damn, Sherlock, you _know_ that’s fantastic. But for this, why are you so scared to make use of…” He paused; thought. “Wait, that makes me think…”

*****

John remained silent and Sherlock started to feel uneasy. He got fidgety, didn’t know what to do with himself. Could John please start speaking again, no matter if he was only berating him. After a while John pulled out his phone and started fiddling with it. It took him some time, he just kept scrolling and looking.

“John, do you really…?” Sherlock tried to gain back John’s attention, but all he earned was John’s raised finger.

“Shhhh...”

This time he did feel shushed. First John wanted him to speak, now he didn’t…

“Seriously John, I don’t think this is…” 

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John glanced up from the screen, half glaring, half amused. "I need to concentrate. I'm looking for something. So, just be quiet... for a minute. If that's possible." This man really was ridiculous, Sherlock thought. But he didn’t contradict, even when John said, “Just… shush, all right?” Sherlock only huffed slightly and sat back, leaning against the backrest. He observed John’s intense study of his phone and felt a familiar fondness rise and warm him inside. 

After a while a triumphant smile spread on John’s face and ceremoniously he placed his phone in the middle of the tabletop.

“You said something about not being brave enough, yeah?” John looked challenging at Sherlock.

“Not exactly said…” Sherlock attempted to correct.

“Sherlock,” John growled. Sherlock clicked his mouth shut, pressed his lips tightly together and swallowed. John nodded, apparently satisfied. “And you said you’re not good with words, yeah? Although I _deduce_ that the problem is not the 'lack of skill' per se," he mimicked the quotation marks, "but applying those skills correctly when you're trying to talk about your emotions. Did I get that right?” Sherlock didn’t dare to speak, only twitched one shoulder as if to say ‘I guess…’. Seemingly having his feelings confirmed, John now sat straighter and gave his short, brisk soldier nod. “I think I have an answer then.”

Looking very pleased with himself, he tapped *[play](https://youtu.be/QUQsqBqxoR4)* on the screen of his phone, and with a daring gaze at Sherlock he let himself fall back against the backrest of his chair.

Immediately a pretty intense rhythm pierced the silence and, to be honest, slightly startled Sherlock. He reached over.

tap

*stop*

"John," he drew his eyebrows together. "You said 'no more songs'?" Actually it was a fact but the confusion turned it into a question. 

"Uhm… yes?" Same effect on John apparently. "But you also…" A tad annoyed but also a bit anxious, Sherlock could see. John already wanted to put the music back on, but Sherlock covered the mobile with his hand just in time. 

"No," Sherlock intervened. " _You_ said, no more songs when we were to talk. _You_ didn't want to risk misunderstandings! Why…?" He realised that he almost sounded frantic.

"No, right. Wait." John huffed and settled his hand over Sherlock's. 

Sherlock immediately realised that he had painfully missed the touch. He hadn't known this touch before, hadn't had it for years and only now, after ten mere minutes without it, he was aware how desperately he needed it. He took a deep breath. Calmed.

"True, I don't want any misunderstandings anymore. I said 'no more songs'—I give you that—but…" Here John looked intensely directly into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock could almost physically feel that look. "... I also said that they're great, yeah? They _did_ help us in some way. Without them I don't know where we would be right now. Although I'm certain it wouldn't be a good place." John swallowed. "I pretty much like the place I'm in." The corner of his mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles. "Although I'd like moving on from here even more. With you. Yeah?" he asked. Sherlock gave a short answering jerk with his chin. 

"Then I think," John said slowly, as if waiting to be contradicted, "we need some help to get moving, yeah?" John gently peeled Sherlock's hand from the phone. "And now… we're both here. We can ask. We can explain. We can stop…" winking he gestured to Sherlock, indicating that he had already made use of that option. "There shouldn't be any more misunderstandings, if we don't want it." 

He held Sherlock's hand in one of his hands, the phone in the other.

"Do you trust me Sherlock?" he asked sincerely.

"Always." That was an easy and obvious answer.

John demonstrably placed the phone back on the table.

"Then bear with me, okay?"

That was the least he could do. Was it not?

"Okay." hesitantly.

"Okay." relieved.

  
  


*****

tap

*play*

**_You can be amazing_ **

**_You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug_ **

tap

*stop* ****

Already, John was about to continue convincing Sherlock that this really was a good way for them to approach the issues they needed to talk about when he realised that, completely unexpectedly, Sherlock snickered.

“Didn’t know there was a recording of our first crime scene.” The corners of his mouth pulled up, his shoulders slightly shaking with suppressed laughter.

“You arse.” John snorted. To detect the sudden boyish glee in Sherlock’s eyes was such a relief. Where had it been all the time? At least it wasn’t gone, it had only been hiding.

“Still true though,” John said, a bit more serious, “That hasn’t changed. You _are_ amazing!”

“An amazing arse then?” Sherlock teased, grinning.

“Yes,” John smirked and raised one eyebrow, “That you have, too.” 

The sight of Sherlock slightly blushing was marvellous. He shifted a bit on said arse and avoided John’s gaze for the fraction of a second, clearing his throat. John kept looking at him, smiling fondly, deliberately letting the words linger in the air without covering them up, for Sherlock to understand that he wasn’t just teasing. 

Sherlock looked back up, held John’s gaze for a moment, colour still high on his cheeks. It was endearing how easily he was flustered. John felt a schoolboy-ish triumph and the challenge to provoke this look on Sherlock more often in the future. 

John had expected Sherlock to brush it off or ridicule it. Sherlock didn’t say anything though. Just watched John and after a moment... 

tap

*play*

**_You can be the outcast_ **

**_Or be the backlash of somebody's lack of love_ **

Sherlock lowered his eyes, face serious again now, biting his lower lip.

**_Or you can start speaking up_ **

**_Nothing's gonna hurt you the way that words do_ **

**_When they settle 'neath your skin_ **

**_Kept on the inside and no sunlight_ **

**_Sometimes a shadow wins_ **

A sad huff. Sherlock was still staring at the tabletop. John squeezed his hand a tiny bit, whispered “hey” to gain his attention, but Sherlock only shook his head no.

tap

*stop*

“Hey,” John said again, a bit louder, still gentle. No reaction. “Sherlock?” John leaned over the table to search Sherlock’s eyes. The only answer was a short grunt. “Come on, tell me what's on your mind, yeah? That’s why we are doing this, right?” 

A deep sigh.

“Yes.” Sherlock said, calmly, closing his eyes for a short moment before looking back at him, “Yes, John, you’re right.”

“So?” 

“I just thought how wry it is to motivate to speak up only to then point out how painful words can be.”

“Yeah, guess that’s true.” John tilted his head. “It really can be hurtful to speak up. For yourself. And the other.” he nodded, contemplating. “But actually, they also say that it’s even more damaging to keep them inside, right? It’s true that the shadows sometimes win, no?”

“Always.” Quietly.

“See?” Quieter still.

A nod.

tap

*play*

**_But I wonder what would happen if you_ **

**_Say what you wanna say_ **

**_And let the words fall out_ **

tap

*stop*

“See, that’s the problem, John. That’s what I wonder, too. What if I speak up, as you say, and it’s _not_ good. You keep implying that it will be for the best, but what if it’s not? I don’t want to hurt you!” Sherlock said, getting agitated.

“You will,” John said seriously. Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You will eventually, Sherlock. And I will hurt _you_. That’s what it’s like between human beings. You can’t avoid that. Important thing is though, not to give up because of that. Because we might hurt each other, but we can talk it out, make up again. And then we keep enjoying our time together, yeah? Most likely we'll even be better afterwards. I think there’d be much more enjoying than hurting each other. Because if that’s what we both want, we can make it work! Just not run if it gets bumpy.”

Sherlock looked sceptically at him. As if this was an alien concept to him. Probably it was. John wondered if Sherlock, at any point in his life, had had the chance to pick up proper problem solving skills that had nothing to do with murder. Not that he himself was exactly an expert on that front, but he _did_ know that problems could be solved. That, how awkward or painful it might be, there was a way to address them. Knowing Sherlock he suspected that Sherlock had indeed never learned how to actually _solve_ a conflict, but rather how to bear it, accept it, ignore it, adapt to it. Run from it.

“Sherlock, honestly! Trust me! We _can_ do this. And we _will_!” He cradled Sherlock’s hand in both of his, pulled it up and brushed his lips over the knuckles of Sherlock’s fingers peeking out from the cocoon of John’s hands. Sherlock swallowed audibly. John purposely pressed his mouth a bit firmer against Sherlock’s fingers, turned it into a proper kiss. He held Sherlock’s hand in place and peeked up at him from under his lashes. “No fucking way you get rid of me that easily ever again.” He growled and dislodged Sherlock’s fingers from his lips with a teasing smack.

Sherlock only looked stunned at him and John didn’t wait for a response.

tap

*play*

**_Honestly I wanna see you be brave_ **

**_With what you want to say_ **

**_And let the words fall out_ **

**_Honestly I wanna see you be brave_ **

“I really do, Sherlock.” John said, quietly. Still holding Sherlock’s hand, pressing it against his mouth, just breathing him in.

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I wanna see you be brave_ **

“I don’t know, John.” Sherlock whispered, winced.

“But I do,” murmured John against Sherlock’s skin.

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I wanna see you be brave_ **

tap

*stop*

“And that doesn’t mean by the way, that you aren’t brave already,” interrupted John. “I told you, I think you’ve always been brave. Maybe you just don’t see it yourself…”

“When did you tell me?” Sherlock asked quizzically.

“Earlier today. In my thoughts. Didn’t you hear?” John smirked.

“I’m not actually a mind reader, John.” Sherlock huffed.

“Oh, is that so?” John grinned. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John winked at him and, elbows leaning steadily on the tabletop, he rested his cheek on the knuckles of their joint hands.

tap

*play*

**_Everybody's been there, everybody's been stared down_ **

**_By the enemy_ **

**_Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing_ **

**_Bow down to the mighty_ **

**_Don't run, stop holding your tongue_ **

tap

*stop*

“This, Sherlock. Don’t think you’re alone in this. We’ve all been there. I’ve been there, God knows. _You_ know! I don’t say it’s easy. It’s not! But it’s… at least I think so... it’s worth it! We're worth it. Don’t hide, Sherlock. Not from me.” 

“I’m trying, John.” Sherlock said, afflicted.

“I know, lo…” John stopped himself just in time and froze. Slowly, stiffly, he raised his head. Sherlock looked rattled. He felt how Sherlock’s hand slightly trembled in his. He eased his grip so that Sherlock could pull away if he’d want to. He didn’t want to force him, to trap him. _‘Damn, Watson. Think!! This is Sherlock, you fucking moron! He can’t even handle you calling him amazing. Let alone calling him 'love'! Great move! Idiot!’_ However, taking it back or ignoring it wouldn’t help either. Sherlock would think he’d regret it or something. Or that it’d been said by accident, what it was of course, but not in that way… fuck. He took a deep breath.

“I know, ...” he said again, let the unspoken word deliberately hang in the air between them, looking Sherlock into the eye in an attempt to convey ‘I might not say it, but I mean it’. Sherlock didn’t pull his hand back and Sherlock’s shaky inhale told him that the message was received. Good.

“Good.” said Sherlock firmly, as if reading John’s thoughts after all. “That’s… good.”

tap

*play*

**_Maybe there's a way out of the cage where you live_ **

**_Maybe one of these days you can let the light in_ **

**_Show me how big your brave is_ **

tap

*stop*

“We’ll find a way, Sherlock. We’ll figure it out.” John tried to reassure him.

“Okay.” Sherlock still didn’t sound convinced.

“I won’t give up!” John insisted.

“I know.” Sherlock said.

“Would my persistence bother you?” John inquired, a bit insecure about it.

“No,” Sherlock answered, fondly, “you wouldn’t be you otherwise.” He gave John a warm smile. “And you’re incapable of bothering me.” Sherlock locked eyes with John for a while and John realised that this had been Sherlock’s version of ‘I know, …’. A grin spread on his face.

“Good,” John nodded. “That’s… good.” he said, copying Sherlock's own earlier reaction to show that he had understood, too. He looked down for a moment and up again, smiled to himself. “Yeah, really good actually…”

Long slender fingers drummed on the tabletop a couple of times before…

tap

*play*

**_Say what you wanna say_ **

**_And let the words fall out_ **

**_Honestly I wanna see you be brave_ **

Sherlock’s hand hovered above the phone for a second, didn’t withdraw. Then, gingerly, in slow motion, it moved up next to John’s forearm still propped up on his elbow, made cautiously contact half way, brushed gently over the thin material of John's shirt, made it slide against his skin. The sensation sent a jolt through John’s synapses, magnified as if his nervous system was on hyper-focus. Which it probably was. High tension, anticipation, hope, yearning making him over-sensitive. Most of all, it was the first touch initiated by Sherlock. 

**_With what you want to say_ **

**_And let the words fall out_ **

**_Honestly I wanna see you be brave_ **

Sherlock’s hand closed around their joint ones. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on them—Sherlock holding John holding Sherlock—watching full of wonder. Their forearms were leaning against each other this way. Tension was slowly seeping out of their muscles, trusting the steady construction of support. John observed in awe how the unwinding meandered from Sherlock’s arms over his shoulders and spread from there down over chest and between his shoulder blades and up over his neck then jaw then his whole face. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, as if finally being able to, and closed his eyes; his face as relaxed as John had ever seen it. Sherlock dipped his head and let it sink forward to lean his forehead on the tangle of their hands.

**_Innocence, your history of silence_ **

**_Won't do you any good_ **

**_Did you think it would?_ **

“Did you really think it would be better to leave than to just talk to me?” John whispered, his own head leaning forward, cheek almost touching curls. He untangled the hand not trapped by Sherlock’s, brushed his fingers over Sherlock’s temple and gave in to the urge to let them slowly slide through the dark brown mob of hair. He felt Sherlock shiver under his hand, stopped at the back of his head and played with the tips of the curls spiking there in all directions. 

**_Let your words be anything but empty_ **

**_Why don't you tell them the truth?_ **

“You can tell me, Sherlock. You can tell me everything. Let me know, don’t hide it from me.” The whispered words close to Sherlock’s ear loud enough against the music. John’s fingers abandoned the strands of hair to brush over the stubble underneath, on Sherlock’s neck. He trailed them over goosebump-y skin until he was stopped by a stiff shirt collar and up again.

**_Say what you wanna say_ **

**_And let the words fall out_ **

**_Honestly I wanna see you be brave_ **

“Don’t be afraid to say whatever it is. It can’t be worse than not saying it.” John kept up his slow caressing of Sherlock's neck, sometimes brushing his fingertips into the curls with an upwards stroke.

**_With what you want to say_ **

**_And let the words fall out_ **

**_Honestly I wanna see you be brave_ **

“I really, honestly want to know.” Sherlock was trembling a bit, his breathing became a bit faster, more ragged.

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I wanna see you be brave_ **

“Whenever you’re ready, Sherlock, I’ll be here. I can wait. As long as I know you’re not shutting me out, keeping it to yourself.” He was gently holding the back of Sherlock’s head now, trying to reassure and protect and support his seemingly distressed… friend? Best friend? Partner? Still that, but also so much more. His... Sherlock. Always that.

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_See you be brave_ **

“Just say the words. Just tell me.” Sherlock, inhaling shakily, tightened his grip, almost crushed John’s hand.

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna see you_ **

**_I just wanna_ **

Suddenly Sherlock jumped up, almost bumping his head against John’s. He wiped the phone from the table and flug it against the fridge, where it bounced off to land on the floor with a loud clatter, the music died immediately, his chair tumbled over noisily. John jerked back, startled, eyes wide in alarm. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, face contorted in a pained expression, troubled emotions clouding his eyes, shoulders heaving from his heavy breathing. Then abruptly he turned and steadied himself on the kitchen counter. 

*****

_‘Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit.’_

It hadn’t been a conscious decision. He hadn’t wanted to react this way. It had just happened. He had no control over it. And that was the problem. That was the goddamn problem. 

“Sherlock?” he heard John’s insecure, frightened voice. Sherlock let his head hang between his shoulders, breathing was difficult. _‘Shit’._ Still the same anxious voice, John continued, “Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry if I…”

“No!” Breathless. _‘Shit’._

“Then what…?” 

He heard the legs of John’s chair screech over the floor, a hesitant step. Then one more.

“You make it sound,” his voice, too small. A bit firmer, “you make it sound as if I deliberately chose not to talk to you… as if I don’t _want_ to.” Firm enough, spat out even at the end. Not good. Too much. _‘SHIT!’_

“Maybe not exactly ‘don’t want to’, but…,” John was searching for words, which made him falter in his approach.

“I _can’t_ , John.” pressed out, desperate, pleading. _‘Please, just understand.’_

“Then why…” 

_‘no, don’t’_ Apparently he had made some sort of noise, because John had stopped briefly. Not long though before he continued nonetheless. 

“What’s holding you back, Sherlock?” Whispered but forceful.

“Nothing.” Under his breath.

“Sherlock, I…” slow footsteps again, cautious as if approaching an injured animal. Or a suicidal person on the edge, about to jump.

“I told you. It’s never been about what I want!” _‘breathe.’_

Footstep.

“Sher…”

“ _There. Are. No. Words.”_ growled through clenched teeth. Animal then. This time—predator, carnivore.

Footsteps faltered. 

“John, you need to understand,” inhale, exhale, inhale, “I don’t _have_ words to say what you want to hear. There are No. Words."

[ **_No words to say_ ** ](https://youtu.be/9ypZMGNoN7g)

**_No words to convey_ **

**_This feeling inside I have for you_ **

“I have never felt this way before. Never, John!” John didn’t come closer. Good. Not good. He didn’t leave either. “Never…”

**_Deep in my heart_ **

**_Safe from the guards_ **

**_Of intellect and reason_ **

“I don’t know what to do about it! I thought I knew myself, John. I don’t. I don’t understand.” He wanted John to come closer. He wanted to vanish into thin air. He wanted to see John’s face. He’d never dare to look at John ever again.

**_Leaving me at a loss_ **

**_For words to express my feelings_ **

“I can’t find words appropriate enough to make you understand. It’s not that I haven’t searched for them. God, I did, I really did. Nothing would suffice, it’d all just be a bleak and deficient depiction.” John was silent, Sherlock couldn’t even hear him breath. 

**_Deep in my heart_ **

**_Look at me losing control_ **

“I have absolutely no idea how to handle this. Reactions, as just now, I don’t want that.” He curled his fingers, wanted to claw the kitchen worktop, crumble it, crush it. Let out the destructive forces that were his emotions on anything but John.

**_Thinking I had a hold_ **

**_But with feelings this strong_ **

**_I'm no longer the master_ **

**_Of my emotions_ **

“I have no control over it. It just happens.” He turned around, needed to see John’s reaction, look him into the eyes. John was standing next to the table, close, only two steps away from him, still at a safe distance. “You know what can happen when I lose control, John. Remember Baskerville?” A short nod, although not as repulsed as Sherlock would have expected. The expression on John’s face was rather one of concern, of affection. He even took a step closer. Sherlock flinched back.

**_No words to say_ **

**_No words to convey_ **

**_This feeling inside I have for you_ **

“This, what I’m feeling now is so much more intense, so much more overwhelming. It makes me…” He felt himself get out of breath, his breath becoming shallow. He was apprehensively looking at John looking reassuringly back. 

**_Deep in my heart_ **

**_Safe from the guards_ **

**_Of intellect and reason_ **

“I’m even less capable of grasping it, let alone name it. I was afraid then, can you even imagine how I’m feeling now?” He forced out. 

“Yes, I can.” It was the first John said since his outburst. His voice as calm as his face. It was infuriating.

“ _NO! YOU CAN’T!_ ” he yelled, internally cursing himself, but not able to act any other way. The smallest trace of a jolt on John’s features, but against all odds he took another, even if miniscule, step closer.

“Then try to explain.”

**_Leaving me at a loss_ **

**_For words to express my feelings_ **

“John,” he felt his insides curl in on themselves, trying to hide away even though he was exposed like never before, “you know the consequences of this emotional state I'm in. You’re aware of what I’m likely to do when I’m out of my depth—I lash out, I hurt who’s closest to me without restraint.” His legs felt jumpy; about to run. He held firmer on to the kitchen counter, felt his arms shake with the effort.

**_Deep in my heart_ **

**_Look at me losing control_ **

“I don’t mind. It’s alright, it’s okay.” One step closer.

“No, it’s _not! IT’S NOT OKAY!_ ” Jesus Christ, he had to get this back under control. He hunched over, pulled his curls. It was not okay. He was not okay.

**_Thinking I had a hold_ **

**_But with feelings this strong_ **

**_I'm no longer the master_ **

**_Of my emotions_ **

“What’s wrong with me?” he hissed out between ragged breaths.

Suddenly there were arms engulfing him, holding him. He felt a warm breath on top of his head, John scattering little light kisses on his hair. Low murmured words.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

*****

It hurt to see Sherlock this distraught. John’s heart ached for him. He’d give everything to take over at least a bit of his pain. No wonder Sherlock had wanted to run from it, if this was what he had felt like the whole time. John had thought he himself was suffering, what must it have been like for Sherlock. And he hadn’t been there to help him, again. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Sherlock,” he said again, to underscore his previous statement.

He held Sherlock in his arms; he felt so small like this. Sherlock was trembling and a bit unsteady on his legs so John let them just slide down against the cupboard doors until they sat on the kitchen floor, never letting go of the man in his arms. Sherlock didn't resist, just leaned on John for support. John pulled him even closer and Sherlock let him. He ran one hand up over his back and cradled Sherlock’s neck, with the fingertips of the other hand he traced a loop between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, an endless loop of lying eights. The infinity symbol, he realised.

“It was others who have wronged you. Who caused this.” 

[ **_Deep rooted connections_ ** ](https://youtu.be/t7-ZsFBvm94)

**_When I look into your eyes_ **

**_I can see there's something blooming_ **

**_Bubbling up inside_ **

“I see you, Sherlock. I know you! There’s so much you have to give. So much you want to give. You’re such an amazing person, Sherlock. Don’t ever doubt that!” He felt Sherlock shaking in his arms. He pressed his lips onto the top of his head again, closed his eyes, breathed him in, didn’t let go.

**_Screaming to get out, yeah_ **

**_But you're too scared to let it_ **

“I know you’re frightened right now. I know this is hard, it’s all too much. But look at you, all brave and strong. You’re here, Sherlock! You’re here.” He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, his chest tight with held back tears. He was so grateful to be here, to get this chance. He was so angry at everyone and everything who had done this to Sherlock, himself included. He tightened his embrace, needed to protect him, to give him shelter.

**_The past still ties you down_ **

**_You're struggling to breathe_ **

“We’re here now, Sherlock! Together! We’ve been given this chance to try again, yeah?” Sherlock turned his head and hid his face against John’s neck. John could feel irregular puffs of warm breath ghost down under his collar. Fists were tightly clenching the shirt on his back.

' ** _Cause he left scars, I'm here to heal for you_**

**_And I know where you are_ **

**_'_ ** **_cause I've been there before_ **

“We’ll be together this time,” he murmured against Sherlock’s scalp. The scent of Sherlock’s shampoo filling his nostrils, comforting, calming, and suddenly making it all feel so very much more real. _‘We’re here’,_ he thought, _‘we’re really here.’_ The moment his own eyes welled up he heard a muffled suppressed sob from somewhere under his chin.

“Oh Sherlock,” he said, voice choked. “Don’t be afraid, love, don’t be scared. Nobody can get to us, when we're together! We’re strong. You’re strong, so strong.” 

**_Open up your heart and let me in_ **

**_Break free from these shackles and let me begin_ **

**_To show you how I love you_ **

**_I'm begging for us_ **

“Let’s leave all that behind! Let’s start over again. Back to the beginning, yes? Give us this chance! Give me the chance to prove to you, that this is worth it!” He felt moisture wetting his neck, the sobs now unrestrained but quiet. Sherlock’s shoulders shaking. 

“Please, Sherlock! Let it all behind. Don’t let the past win.”

He pulled away a bit, but only so far that he could take Sherlock’s face in his hands, tenderly holding him, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. It took a moment, some unsteady breaths, before Sherlock cautiously opened his red rimmed eyes to look at John.

**_Look into my eyes_ **

**_And trust me when I say this_ **

**_What you mean to me_ **

**_Will never ever die_ **

“Whatever it is that is frightening you so much…” He said with emphasis, holding Sherlock’s gaze. “We can do it together! There’s nothing, do you hear me Sherlock,” he ran both his hands through Sherlock’s curls, searched his beautiful face, let his hands rest at his nape, “nothing that can scare me away. Nothing can be worse than being without you.” Sherlock swallowed, a shaky intake of breath. Eyes as troubled as the stormy sea looking back at John. 

**_Yeah, he left scars, I'm here to heal for you_ **

**_And I know where you are 'cause I've been there before_ **

“We’ve done this before, remember. I didn't handle it well back then either. You know why I was that furious when you came back? That was the reason. I was so hurt that you had left, I was so happy to have you back, I was so torn between the past and the time ahead, I felt so much, I couldn’t place it or understand it.” The tumult of emotions seemed to untangle a bit, the eyes observing him were a bit more scrutinising. “I lashed out, too. I was afraid, too. I’ve almost lost you back then. I’m not letting that happen again!”

**_Open up your heart and let me in_ **

**_Break free from these shackles and let me begin_ **

**_To show you how I love you_ **

**_I'm begging for us_ **

“Whichever way, Sherlock. Please let us try again. We’ve both been through a lot. We’ve learned our lesson. Let’s do better this time!”

Sherlock roamed his face with his eyes full of disbelief, as if he was seeing John for the first time. The big hands released the back of his shirt and moved trembling to his front. Hands open, fingers splayed, he laid his palms flat on John’s chest, watching with eyes wide of wonder, as if he was touching John for the first time. Hesitant as if he didn’t know if he was allowed to.

**_Yeah, he left scars, that I'm here to heal for you_ **

**_And I know where you are 'cause I've been there before_ **

With one hand John covered one of Sherlock’s, securing it where it was, increasing the pressure.

“You’re allowed, Sherlock. Caring _is_ an advantage. I think Mycroft never wanted you not to have this. He wanted to protect you.” Sherlock winced, but didn’t let go. “He just _knew_ how big your heart is, how sensitive and caring and… well… fragile you are.” He pulled Sherlock’s hand up and rested his cheek against Sherlock’s open palm. Long warm fingers immediately dug into the soft skin behind his ear. Breathing became difficult.

“He just never wanted you to get hurt.” In desperation he gave a little tug with the hand still settled on Sherlock’s nape. He needed Sherlock to understand. He pulled him closer until their foreheads were pressed together. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between their faces. Sherlock was grasping John’s shirt collar, the other hand had never eased the firm hold of his face. It felt as if Sherlock was clinging to him, as if he was afraid John were about to leave, would be gone the next moment.

**_Open up your heart and let me in_ **

**_Break free from these shackles and let me begin_ **

**_To show you how I love you_ **

**_I'm begging for us_ **

“Please, Sherlock, give yourself this chance to try. Don’t deny yourself. Don’t hurt yourself. If not for yourself, at least do it for me.” John said quietly. The words floating in the back and forth of air wavering in the cocoon they formed. “Let me in. Show me.” He looked up without losing the contact, the angle awkward, the distance too short, but it was everything he needed. Sherlock’s mesmerising eyes were already looking back at him, his open and vulnerable gaze resting on his face.

“I want to, John, I want to! I don’t know how.” He whispered. Closing his eyes he slowly moved his head to rub their foreheads together. It was something between tender and forceful, between careful and desperate, between pleasant and uncomfortable. “Tell me how, John.” he pleaded. “How?”

“I think I know how. I have an idea." John felt hope bubble up. He held Sherlock’s face still, waited until he opened his eyes and looked at him again. “Do you trust me, Sherlock?” he asked.

“Always.” Sherlock repeated his earlier answer.

John sighed relieved, pulled Sherlock’s face closer. Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm but John aimed for his forehead and pressed a heartfelt kiss to it. He released Sherlock’s face only to jump to his feet and immediately grab Sherlock's hand to pull him up too. Without waiting another second he rushed towards the door leading to the stairway, a confused Consulting Detective in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song 1 for the chapter: ["Brave"](https://youtu.be/QUQsqBqxoR4)
> 
> song 2 for the chapter: ["For You"](https://youtu.be/9ypZMGNoN7g)
> 
> song 3 for the chapter: ["Let me in"](https://youtu.be/t7-ZsFBvm94)
> 
> Playlist for the chapter can be found [here (click)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLLyXzbDSBo_gGlREIY0iX_vpdgc3Z39bW)
> 
> Playlist "Shatter Me" can be found [here (click)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLLyXzbDSBo_hlI3eIe9OqdLP_WoH-C_Zh)


	18. Movement #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what they were - each other's counter balance. Affecting each other, correcting each other. Complementing each other. Together they were in equilibrium, harmony. Like a perpetuum mobile. 
> 
> He'd do everything for this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> yay, an update!!  
> Despite having been distracted by another fic which demanded to be written, I can present you this new chapter with not too much delay.
> 
> The posting schedule will stay irregular for a while. Also I did mention that I might post shorter chapters, right? Did I say shorter chapters??? 😳 Well, so much for that... 😅
> 
> Despite not-as-short-as-expected chapters the chapter count was raised once again. The boys have a lot to talk about (of which even the author sometimes didn't know) and demanded a bit more time to be happy together... who am I to deny them? *innocent blinky eyes*
> 
> On a different note, remember: songs on the left=chosen by the boys, songs on the right=chosen by author 
> 
> Last thing: For the last chapter I forgot to mention that the chapter titles for part 3 are a medley of the songs within the chapter. We'll see how that works out... 😜
> 
> Now I won't keep you any longer!  
> Enjoy!  
> Sending you lots of love,  
> me 💕
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to songs within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

Only the moment when they stepped out on the pavement Sherlock realised that he was still wearing his dressing gown. Reluctantly he let go of John’s hand to head back inside. He threw the gown carelessly on the stairs and made a short stop in front of the mirror in the hallway for a useless attempt to fix the mess that were his puffy eyes and tousled hair. 

When he came back outside, John was already holding open the door of a cab for him, looking adoringly proud about having been able to summon a cab on his own. Sherlock smiled at him and was blown away by the affection that appeared on John’s face as a response. Sherlock got in the car and shuffled over to the seat on the other side when he realised that John followed him, instead of walking around the car to get in on his own side. 

John didn’t say anything, before looking out of his side's window. So apparently he had already given directions to the driver. Sherlock looked at him curiously, but John didn’t look back, apparently lost in thought.

Sherlock however noticed the hand placed between them, palm up, inviting. Sherlock smiled; John Watson—the subtlety of a lumberjack. He placed his hand lightly over John’s, ran his fingers over his palm to settle for linking their pinkies in the end, not sure how comfortable John was with obvious hand-holding in public. John immediately reacted to it by clenching his own pinky around Sherlock’s as if to link them permanently by touch alone. John only shifted a bit in his seat, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth, but didn’t acknowledge Sherlock any further.Trying not to sigh too obviously Sherlock turned his head and watched the outside world float by; it all seemed so small and irrelevant at this moment when his whole world expanded infinitely in this car right now. Where was John taking him?

When the destination dawned on him, his pulse sped up and his head jerked around.

“John,” he said under his breath, more a whisper than voice. He stared at John in horror. He didn’t know if he was able to do that in his current state.

John turned to look at him, caressing him with his gaze. His eyes softened.

“But I know you can.” he said as if he had read Sherlock’s mind. 

[ **_I still watch you when you're_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSye8OO5TkM) **_groovin'_ **

**_As if through water from the bottom of a pool_ **

“The thing is, I have seen it all the time, from the beginning; but I did not observe after all. I only now start to understand.”

**_You're movin' without movin'_ **

**_And when you move, I'm moved_ **

“And then I mean not only your dancing, Sherlock. Also when you play your violin, it’s as if you’re dancing without dancing. And when I see you, hear you, something's stirring inside; there's something’s happening to me which I never fully understood.”

**_You are a call to motion_ **

**_There all of you a verb in perfect view_ **

“I’ve seen you enough times; I know now that it is your way to let it all out, everything you keep under lock and key. When you dance there seems to be nothing to hold you back; no restrictions, no boundaries, no shells. You seem to talk to me somehow. You’re letting me in without knowing it.”

**_Like Jonah on the ocean_ **

**_When you move, I'm moved_ **

“It’s as if you’re swallowed by it, as if you’re drowning in it. And when you’re done sorting, you’re coming out on the other side even stronger than before. It changes me, too, to see you like that. It makes me think, it makes me question myself.”

**_When you move_ **

**_I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be_ **

“That one time, when you asked for someone to shatter you, to make you feel alive?” John swallowed and Sherlock felt all the dread from that moment raise again. But John looked intensely at him, as if to pull him back from where he was retreating to. “I kept wondering why it wasn't me. Why couldn't I be the one? What was I lacking… I couldn't figure it out. I wanted it so desperately to be me.”

**_When you move_ **

**_I could never define all that you are to me_ **

“That was what made me realise what I really wanted. For myself, for you. All I want is for you to be happy, Sherlock. I’d do everything for that."

“John,” he couldn’t quite get it out. He felt lightheaded, his voice was failing him. But John spoke before he could start to panic, as if to stop him.

**_So move me, baby_ **

**_Shake like the bough of a willow tree_ **

“Do it again, Sherlock. I know you can. Just… let it all out. Everything that’s stuck in there.” John reached up, a whisper of a touch on Sherlock’s face, John’s thumb stroking over his forehead once, leaving a trace of calm and comfort in its wake. On its way down John’s hand stilled on Sherlock’s chest, rested where his heart was pounding fiercely against his ribcage.

**_You do it naturally_ **

**_Move me, baby_ **

“That’s what you do. Just… don’t think about it. Just do it.”

**_You are the rite of movement_ **

**_Its reasonin' made lucid and cool_ **

“You’re beautiful when you dance, you know?! I’ll never tire of watching you.” John loosened his pinky clamp to take Sherlock’s hand properly, to thread their fingers and brush his thumb over Sherlock’s inner wrist. He looked back out of his window, as if to avoid Sherlock’s eyes. “No matter where or what... dancing, playing your violin, behind your microscope, at a crime scene—I’ll never tire of watching you when you’re in your element.”

**_And though it's no improvement_ **

**_When you move, I move_ **

“You know what it does to me,” he chuckled. “From our first crime scene on. No-one except you has ever made me enjoy myself that much, made me happy. I still don’t know what I’m even doing there apart from conducting light,” he smirked, only slightly as if he just made an inside joke with himself, “but I keep traipsing along like a puppy only to watch you.” Sherlock tried to hide the involuntarily growing fond smile spreading on his face. 

**_You're S. Polunin leapin'_ **

**_Or Fred Astaire in sequins_ **

“And when you’re dancing… gosh, I can’t even express that. In one way it’s so unrestrained and rough, the next moment it’s graceful, fluent of sorts and then again it’s… it’s composed somehow? The exact opposite? There’re so many layers to your dancing, Sherlock, I can’t even start to unravel that on my own.”

**_Honey, you, you're Atlas in his sleepin'_ **

**_And when you move, I'm moved_ **

“It’s so different from everything I’ve ever seen. So powerful, even in your weakest moments. I can see that there’s even more hidden inside, more than you realise yourself.” John turned again, scanning him from head to toe, as if looking for all the hidden emotions waiting to get out.

**_When you move_ **

**_I can recall somethin' that's gone from me_ **

“It’s amazing!” His eyes were gleaming, like the very first day they’d been out on a case together. Like the day he had changed Sherlock’s life forever.

**_When you move_ **

**_Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free_ **

“It’s as if you’re throwing yourself into it—fully. It’s raw, it’s pure. It’s so... you.” John’s gaze was warm, admiring, fervent. He roamed Sherlock’s face with his eyes. “It’s extraordinary really. Quite... extraordinary.” He murmured and turned to look out of the window again. 

**_So move me, baby_ **

**_Shake like the bough of a willow tree_ **

“So, here we are,” John said when the car took a corner. Sherlock looked outside and was startled to see that they already neared Battersea Power Station. All the while John was talking, he had paid no attention to the outside world and had missed how much time had gone by. The car slowed down, then stopped and John opened the door, hopped out and handed the driver some notes through his open window. Sherlock followed slowly, hesitantly. He looked sheepishly at John, no idea what to do next, but John only grabbed his hand and pulled him along while he led the way as if he belonged here. 

**_You do it naturally_ **

**_Move me, baby_ **

It was mind-boggling for Sherlock to see these worlds collide. Yes, he was aware that John had been here before. Yes, he had even seen him, spoken to him. He knew all that. But John being here, with him, willingly and purposefully… John stopped his stride just before entering the building. He looked up at Sherlock, expectant, questioning, asking for permission. Sherlock realised that John was well aware that this was a special place to Sherlock... his safe haven, his shelter, his refuge and his sanctuary… John waited to be allowed to enter this place, he waited for Sherlock to let him in...

**_So move me, baby_ **

**_Like you've nothin' left to prove_ **

“I think this can work, Sherlock. What are you afraid of?” John squeezed his hand, which he was still holding firmly. Sherlock’s heart raced, his mind whirled. John knew... John had seen right through him. Sherlock felt his hand palms getting sweaty, trepidation made him jittery.

“But you’ve only seen me twice,” Sherlock swallowed, his voice was thick and he realised that this was the first time he had spoken since they’d left Baker Street, “how is that enough times to make this assumption?” Sherlock could have smacked himself. Why was he getting defensive again? He knew why. The two times John had watched him had been some of his most unguarded moments. And they had both hurt. And he was still embarrassed about both of them. Breaking down that spectacularly in front of John who had to pick up his pieces afterwards and nurse him back to consciousness—not his finest moment. The other time—being half naked, in his mind devouring and being devoured by the man now standing in front of him while said man was watching him. Sherlock blushed furiously at the thought alone. He forced himself to not avoid John’s gaze and saw the bastard smirk. Damn, he knew exactly what went through Sherlock’s mind.

“I didn’t mind…” he said, his grin spreading on his face, “actually, exactly the opposite.” A mischievous wink followed. When Sherlock didn't join in the teasing, he turned serious again.

**_And nothin' to lose_ **

**_Move me, baby_ **

“Sherlock, I don’t mind.” he now said, insistently. “It’s fine. It’s all fine. This was just an idea. We can leave if you want. I won’t force you. I just thought…” a shimmer of insecurity flickered in his eyes, he shuffled his feet. “I thought this might work. That it maybe is a way to… nevermind.” He sighed and looked down at his feet, never let go of Sherlock’s hand. Only a heartbeat later he looked up again, boring his gaze into Sherlock’s eyes. “It’s okay you know. We can go in there or not—your call. I won’t go anywhere you don’t want me to and I won’t leave unless you ask me to.” For emphasis he shrugged his shoulders, which made him look like a stubborn little school boy; and suddenly Sherlock felt the ties around his heart unwind and a laugh crept up his throat. It tingled and it vibrated in his chest and pulled a warmth in its wake that broke free, when he saw the relief easing the lines around John’s eyes. When a grin spread on John’s lips Sherlock couldn’t hold back either; he huffed once and chuckled, feeling his constricted lungs unfold and his roaring stomach calm down.

**_Ooh, ooh, ooh_ **

**_Oh baby, oh baby_ **

He gallantly waved his hand and gestured towards the entrance.

“After you, my dear.” he said. John’s eyebrows rose slightly and his eyes widened at hearing the endearment and it felt slightly alien in Sherlock’s mouth, too. But good alien; like an exotic fruit one immediately liked but which’s taste one still had to get used to. Just unfamiliar. But sweet and refreshing and delicious. 

**_Move like grey skies_ **

**_Move like a bird of paradise_ **

**_Move like an odd sight come out at night_ **

John didn’t react otherwise and Sherlock was grateful for it. John only acknowledged the shift in Sherlock’s mood with a small nod and turned to continue his path, calmer now, slower. Sherlock followed in his wake, trying desperately not to let go of John’s hand, despite some narrow passages to cross and piles of clutter to circumvent. John was quiet. Sherlock didn’t know what to think of it after his earlier wordiness. He already started to worry, when John finally spoke again the moment they approached the main hall. Without faltering in his steps, quiet, but enough for Sherlock to hear above the scrunch of their feet on the gravel.

“Nothing I’ll see here will scare me away, you know?! I’ve already seen so many facets of it… of you, and they were all stunning.” He glanced over his shoulder. Even quieter, “all of them, do you hear me?”

Sherlock swallowed, nodded.

**_Move me, baby_ **

**_Shake like the bough of a willow tree_ **

“Okay then, come on.” John said, turned towards him and took Sherlock’s other hand as well.

“You don’t need to hold back,” John said, moving them backwards into the hall, “not for me.” 

He was taking one cautious step after the other. He held Sherlock’s hands, held Sherlock’s gaze... _‘and so much more he isn’t even aware of’_ , thought Sherlock. 

The sun stood high in the sky, it had to be mid afternoon by now, Sherlock estimated. The air in the engine hall was warm but dry, there was some draft through the broken headlights. It ruffled John’s hair lightly. The sun caught in the silvery strings and made his hair sparkle. With the next few steps John was poured over by the light; it reflected in his colour-shifting eyes, brought the whole beautiful palette of blues and greens and greys and hazels to life and Sherlock was mesmerized, couldn’t look away.

**_You do it naturally_ **

**_Move me, baby_ **

Suddenly it hit him that he didn’t have to. He didn’t have to look away, to hide. He was allowed. The realisation surged through his body like a jolt and like an out-of-body experience he watched himself walk into the sunlit room, familiar and yet brand new to his eyes. He could see the whole picture now; the room spacey but accessible; the building old, shabby, run-down but about to be rebuilt; the windows high up and dirty but the light poured in through the cracks; the shadows barely visible from this angle, retreated into the nooks. 

**_So move me, baby_ **

**_Like you've nothin' left to lose_ **

He watched himself holding John’s hands; he watched himself being led, following, without resistance. He watched himself gravitating towards the man in front of him, watched the two of them, secure in their own orbit, like two elements connecting, forming a new substance.

**_And nothin' to prove_ **

**_Move me, baby_ **

They reached the centre of the hall and John stopped walking, though he did not stop tugging on Sherlock’s hands. He pulled him closer until they stood only centimetres apart and guided Sherlock’s arms around his waist until his hands rested on the small of his back. Sherlock snapped back into his body in time to feel John run his fingers through his curls. They found their destination when they loosely circled his neck, arms resting on Sherlock’s shoulders. Their weight somehow grounded him, kept him in place without holding him back.

**_So move me, baby_ **

**_Shake like the bough of a willow tree_ **

Sherlock was stunned into silence, he could do nothing but exist—here and now—and wait what would happen. He knew he probably stared at John, but he couldn’t stop drinking in his sight. He marvelled at the sheer incredibility of John’s presence. Here. With him. Studying John’s features asked all of his attention, there was no space to deduce, to presume, to plan, to know what came next. Never before had Sherlock been comfortable with not knowing. 

John’s thumbs moved slowly up and down his nape, brushing the tender skin behind his ear. Sherlock tried to hide the shudder taking hold of his entire body, but he couldn't. His trembling hands made him aware of where they were resting. He didn’t know if it was meant to steady his hands or to actually pull John closer, but that was what happened when he increased the pressure on John’s lower back. Until they were standing flush against each other. Until Sherlock could feel the warmth of their bodies mingle. Until John had to reposition his arms because the angle became awkward. They slid off Sherlock’s shoulders, trapped his arms, circled his waist. John leaned slightly backwards to look Sherlock in the eyes.

**_You do it naturally_ **

“Just pretend, nobody’s watching!” John said, softly. “As if I’m not here.” He searched Sherlock’s face thoughtfully, then slowly, deliberately shook his head. “No,” he said, stretching the word. “No, actually... You have to be aware that I’m here. And that I’ll stay. You have to know that I’m watching you and that I will love it.”

Sherlock’s heart didn’t know what to do—if it was about to stop working or if it wanted to jump out of his chest.

**_Move me, baby_ **

“Dance for me, Sherlock!”

******

John almost giddily watched the transformation Sherlock had made from the sobbing man in his arms on the kitchen floor at Baker Street to the man he was holding now, confident and composed, relaxed and open—and almost eagerly staring at him. 

It had only been a taxi ride, at least in the regular perception, but it seemed to have been a shift in time and space for the two of them.

Sherlock had been quiet throughout it all, hadn’t said anything, not with words at least. John had been worried that he himself had said too much—too many words, too many intruding observations, too many gravely confessions. But then, it had all just come pouring out, spilling over, no way to stop it. Words demanded to be said, having been kept hidden for far too long. Apparently it hadn’t done any harm, considering their current situation. Rather the opposite.

He was very aware of the warm, lean and very male body he was holding; all bone and muscle, no padding to soften the edges. Taller than him, he had to look up. And he didn’t mind one bit. He was always looking up to Sherlock anyway, so…

John only now noticed the smell of Sherlock’s cologne, smiling to himself as he recognised the even posher than usual brand for special occasions. He could feel Sherlock’s breath ghost over his skin. Their gazes were linked and John wondered if the sizzling connection might be actually physically traceable. When he realised what a Sherlock-y thing to think it was, he couldn’t suppress the laughter bubbling up. It was one of the happy sorts that rose from deep within. It vibrated through his body and only the moment he felt his shaking belly bounce against Sherlock’s he fully understood just _how_ close they were. They were leaning against each other, holding each other, steadying each other. If one of them would loosen their grip unexpectedly the other were likely to fall. At the thought of it John pulled him just a bit firmer against himself. 

A mix of emotions washed over Sherlock’s face—a fleeting expression of confusion and insecurity at first which instantly shifted into relief; probably about John’s obvious approval of the unintentional closeness. He also seemed flustered, which John could fully understand as he himself wasn’t particularly unaffected by it either. He was thrilled to be the cause of those reactions by Sherlock. Most of all about the wonder with which Sherlock looked at him. Pure awe at the possibility to have this. And _‘yes’,_ John thought, _‘yes, we are truly allowed to have this. To have each other.’_

As the realisation sank in, the buzz of the happy amusement turned into a flood of gratitude which moistened his eyes. He blinked several times and swallowed to get the knot out of his throat so he could continue what he had started.

“Would you do that for me?” he asked. 

He saw how Sherlock had to recollect their conversation and was pleased to have been able to shut down the never resting machinery of Sherlock’s mind.

He should have expected that he wouldn’t get a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer from the genius. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow in contemplation, loosened his hold and stepped back a bit. But it was okay. Where John would have panicked before, really not so long ago—hours maybe or not even that—he was now sure that it didn’t hold any rejection. Sherlock didn’t retreat, not emotionally, and that was what counted. So he gave him some space; slowly, carefully pulling back his arms, letting his hands linger for a moment to show that he wasn’t upset.

“What gave you the impression that I’m better at expressing my emotions in dance or even more that you’d understand me better? We never talked about it, so how can you be sure?” Sherlock asked without any venom in it. It wasn’t an accusation like it was often conveyed by this sort of questioning. Sherlock genuinely tried to understand, to find out if it was true—if this could work. This specifically gave John the confirmation that Sherlock was serious and intended to make this work, to give it a chance.

“That is undeniably true; we never talked about it. But that’s why we’re here, right? To change that. And as I said, I saw you. You’ve never seen yourself dance like that, Sherlock. It’s… it’s breathtaking. And even if it is hard to believe I can draw conclusions, too.” This earned him a small grin from Sherlock. “You know,” he continued, “I know some of what happened before, I see you dance, I hear your music, I see what happens afterwards. I might not be able to fully grasp the content, but what was obvious is that it is pure emotion. Something happens when you dance, Sherlock. You’re able to express and process emotions you have no access to otherwise. Or for those you can’t handle any other way. You make decisions, you draw conclusions, you understand yourself in your dancing. And if you dare to show me, if you allow me to see that, if you let me in... I might understand it, too.” He watched Sherlock closely, curious about his reaction. His eyes lost focus, moved rapidly from one side to the other, which was a clear sign for John that he was weighing, evaluating, before they narrowed and the piercing, sharp, clear, familiar gaze was back and scrutinised John. 

“And you gained all that from the two times you spied on me?” He even tilted his head a bit, a trace of suspicion in his voice.

“First of all, I didn’t spy on you,” John had to force himself to sound serious as the adoration he felt for the man in front of him constantly threatened to make him grin broadly. “And no, it wasn’t only twice.” he stated. 

“How…,” Sherlock frowned. “When…?”

“I followed you. After that argument, do you remember, when you came back and caught me listening to that song?”

“Of course I remember.” Sherlock looked confused. “You followed me?” He sounded so astonished and pained at the same time as if he had wished for nothing more that day than for John to come running after him and hold him back. If only John had realised then, could everything have turned out differently? But different from now wouldn’t necessarily mean better, would it?

“Of course I did. Of course I followed you. I couldn’t risk losing you…” John swallowed, his chest constricting from the upwelling pain the memories of that day entailed. “I almost did anyway…”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, probably remembering and living through that day again himself. His breathing faltered a bit.

“But if you didn’t want to lose me, as you say, then why… I thought… You were tired of me. I’ve become a burden for you.” Sherlock said, urgently, as if he wanted it to be confirmed. Was that what Sherlock had thought? John’s heart was pounding frantically.

“No, never!” He rushed to say, forcefully, desperately. “Why would you think that?” He knew his eyes were wide in horror. He drew his brows together; tried to make sense of any of that. “Only when Mycroft told me you’d…"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock spat and glared at John. He was lost, it was as if he and Sherlock weren't talking about the same thing, as if they had lived in parallel universes. "Why Mycroft? When did you talk with Mycroft?" Sherlock inquired confused. Angered?

"Uhm, I met him twice. Three times actually if you count in the delivery of your letter. The first time was right the next day though. When you left again in the morning."

"But _I_ was there with him that morning." Sherlock tilted his head. The annoyance seemed to turn into honest puzzlement. 

"Yes, I know. I arrived exactly the moment you left. Mycroft came informing me about your plans—although in his cryptic way as usual— and sent me off to follow you to Battersea. When I saw you dance that day, for the second time by then, I understood though. 'The last time I'll abandon you'," John nodded, looking down at his feet. His insides felt twisted by sadness and hurt. It was merely a whisper when he continued, "why, Sherlock? I… I didn't understand. Still don’t... I kept asking myself what I had done wrong, what I could have done better. And then, when you… you wanted someone to make you feel alive and I thought it wasn’t me, I took a step back to give you space and…”

“It has always been you, John,” Sherlock interrupted him. “You keep me right.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“Because you left.”

“You could have stayed,” John said with a slightly hysterical chuckle. He got distressed by the sheer insanity of it all.

“No, I couldn’t have.” Sherlock said, gravely.

“Why?” John was at a loss.

“I couldn’t risk hurting you.” 

“But you _did_ hurt me, Sherlock! You hurt me by leaving,” John almost shouted, agitated, helpless.

Sherlock lowered his eyes, looked like a child awaiting punishment. John took a deep breath; tried to calm down. It wouldn’t help one bit if they argued now. 

“Sherlock, why did you think it would be better to leave than to stay?” He took a step closer, tried to make his voice calm, reassuring. “Why would it hurt less if you left?”

Sherlock winced and he radiated agony, John could almost feel it physically. John closed the last remaining space between them and laid his hands on Sherlock’s waist. A connection, a reassurance, nothing more. 

“Try?” he encouraged him, when Sherlock kept struggling.

When Sherlock met his gaze again, John’s breath hitched at the pain and vulnerability he saw in his eyes.

“I couldn’t risk losing you.” Sherlock whispered. John frowned.

“But if you’d left, wouldn’t it have been…”

“No… No! You don’t understand,” Sherlock growled as if scolding himself. “If I had stayed… as I'm doing now by the way,” he looked miserable, “I would most certainly have put you in harm’s way again. I would have done something to put you off, to drive you away eventually. It seems inevitable and already I almost have. Had I followed through with my plan, I would have avoided the chances that you would be hurt physically because of The Work, because of me…" he swallowed. "Had it been me who left, I wouldn’t have had to witness you walking away from me entirely, deciding you no longer needed me in your life. I dreaded the moment you would realise that you would get nothing but pain from our... connection."

“Sherlock, I’d never…” he hurried to contradict, but Sherlock wouldn’t have it.

“How can you be sure?” Sherlock shouted, but reigned his temper in immediately. “You can’t know,” he said, in a lower voice, calming himself down. “John, be honest. How often have you been in danger because of me? How often have I hurt you?” When John stayed silent, Sherlock only nodded. “It would have been too much eventually. At some point it would have been the last straw, it was— _is_ —unavoidable. I couldn’t risk breaking you, in whichever way.” His breathing became ragged, John saw that he had difficulties to maintain composure. He tightened his hold on Sherlock’s waist as if he could hold him together somehow.

“Sherlock, that wouldn’t have happened. It _will_ not happen.” He slowly shook his head without leaving Sherlock out of his sight. “Not if I have any say in it.”

“I couldn’t risk it, John. You don’t know what it would have meant for me…” he inhaled shakily. “You have no idea what _you_ mean to me!”

“Then tell me.” John said quietly.

“I can’t.” Sherlock whispered, his voice raspy of the raw emotions.

“That’s why we’re here, yeah?” John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s flanks. “Maybe that’s a good point to start. As good as any, I think. We have to start somewhere, yeah?” He studied Sherlock’s face; wished, hoped, prayed that Sherlock would take the leap. 

“Dance for me.” he repeated his earlier request. And Sherlock nodded.

“Okay, great.” John smiled warmly at Sherlock. “Shall I just…?” He pointed with one thumb over his shoulder to signal that he’d make his way to the sidelines. The moment he made an attempt to turn, to give Sherlock some space, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and held him back. John looked curiously at him.

“No. Stay.” Sherlock simply said and pulled him back.

Standing in close proximity, Sherlock observed him for a moment wordlessly. Without letting John go, without stepping back, he pulled his mobile phone out of his trouser pocket and started searching its content. While Sherlock looked down on the screen, John studied his face, marvelled at his profile. Did Sherlock even know how beautiful he was? He wasn’t just a handsome bloke as John had seen many in his life. There were enough people who were pleasant to look at. However Sherlock… he was way out of the ordinary. Extraordinary—it was the perfect word to describe him. In more than just his outer shell. This man was extraordinary inside and out. And John was the one who was allowed to love him. John swallowed, emotions threatening to overwhelm him. 

“This song…” Sherlock said without looking up, oblivious to John’s rapture. He kept scrolling with one hand, the other still holding John’s wrist tightly. “Ever since the day at Bart’s, when I jumped, it has been your song. I would play it and think of you. On my mission, no matter where I was or what had happened, I would listen to it to remind me what I was enduring it for. It was one of the first things I downloaded when I once again lost my phone, needed a new number or a new identity. I knew it by heart and could retreat to it in my head, when there was no way to actually listen to it.” John got a bit nauseous imagining the scenarios Sherlock mentioned. When apparently Sherlock had found what he was looking for, his head snapped up and he held John’s gaze. “It kept me alive,” he said. “And I never thought I’d ever show it to you.” 

He pressed play and immediately paused it again. He took John’s hand and gently opened his clenched fist. John hadn’t even realised how his body had reacted to the distress of hearing Sherlock so nonchalantly talking about the horrid time away that had almost broken both of them. Sherlock carefully laid his phone in John’s hand, closed John’s fingers around it and swallowed. 

“You can easily restart it,” he said with a thick voice and John couldn’t shake the impression that it was about much more than just the song. 

Sherlock let go of John and took a couple of steps backwards. He crouched down and untied his shoes and threw them, together with his socks, carelessly to the side. He rolled up his trouser legs to just under his knees before standing again. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves up as well. John watched, enraptured. There was a particular appeal to Sherlock’s forearms laid bare by rolled up sleeves of one of his otherwise impeccable shirts. _‘Well, to be blunt’_ , John thought, _‘it is drop-dead sexy.’_ It didn’t get any easier for John when Sherlock also unbuttoned the first two buttons of his collar. Did he know what he was doing to John? John still couldn’t estimate how aware Sherlock was of his insane attractiveness and its effect on John. It was… immense, both of it. And John didn’t know what his face was showing, when Sherlock looked at him again. Sherlock took a deep breath and gave him a short nod as a sign to start. 

John looked down at the phone where the song was set on pause. #3—hm, not very telling. Were there also #1 and #2? And if so, what were they about if this song was that important? Still wondering, [ he pressed play ](https://youtu.be/fb63qCgowYI). There was a short silence. When he looked up he saw Sherlock standing with his eyes closed, breathing slowly but deeply.

When the music started, Sherlock’s posture shifted immediately. Radiating determination, vigour. His eyes snapped open and his fierce gaze bored directly into John’s soul. There was no doubt about Sherlock’s seriousness in this. John could feel Sherlock’s volition and power seep down his own spinal cord and spread through its axons until every single corner of his body was brimming with tension.

At first Sherlock didn’t move much and John wondered if he maybe had changed his mind. But then he started tapping his heel in time with the beat and leaned slightly forwards over his bent knee towards John. His body minisculely rocking, absorbing the music, the little nods and shakes of his head indicating that he was sinking deeper into the pool of his emotions; that he was entering an area reserved solely for occasions like this. All the while he held John’s gaze, his eyes telling him _‘this is for you’._

 _‘He looks like a fucking rock star’,_ John thought, his heart rate speeding up.

**_If you take a step towards me_ **

**_You will take my breath away_ **

**_So I'll keep you close and keep my secret safe_ **

Suddenly Sherlock took a leap John thought wasn’t humanly possible, like rolling through the air, arms spread wide. Landing steadily on both feet, resuming his former position. Like breaking free, came to John’s mind. Their eye contact broken, Sherlock closed his and was fully absorbed in his dance. His head dropped back and exposed his stretched neck. John stood close enough to see Sherlock’s throbbing pulse under the pale skin and his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. John swallowed in sympathy. Sherlock’s lean frame started swaying and rocking more intensely, becoming one with the song.

**_No one else has ever loved me_ **

**_No one else has ever tried_ **

**_I never understood how much I could take_ **

Another leap, even more powerful than the first one and Sherlock was dancing. John watched in awe as everything broke free from the man he loved so much. It was as if Sherlock was shedding his armour, piece by piece, bit by bit. 

A sharp pull backwards, leaving him bent and curled in on himself, all but one outstretched leg, keeping him on his tiptoes. Immediately followed by the other leg darting out, stabbing the air, pulling his body, stretched to the extreme, to the side. A slow turn on one pointed foot. Another one following in its wake, a bit faster, arms floating through the air.

**_Then I saw the worst was over_ **

**_When I laid my eyes on you_ **

**_It was all that I could do to know my place_ **

His motions got bolder, his movements less contained. More power in his next jumps, less clean technique in his turns. More beauty to it all. John could barely believe that he was allowed to watch. The tightness in his chest the result of too many entangled emotions, impossible to unravel.

As if it wasn’t almost too much to process already, Sherlock slowed down, opened his eyes and looked at John, roaming his face with so much love in his eyes that John’s throat closed up, leaving him no possibility to breathe, keeping the upwelling tears inside. Luckily, Sherlock turned away just in time before John could embarrass himself. 

**_Out of all the vast illusions_ **

**_Out of all the dreams come true_ **

**_I was gone until I finally saw your face_ **

Sherlock threw himself into his dance and John, released from the intensity of Sherlock’s eyes, took a shuddering breath. He watched Sherlock variating between turns and leaps and miraculously sliding over the dust covered floor. It was a quick shift between fast and slow, bold and small, confident and contained. It looked torn, it looked indecisive. Sherlock’s face expressed it all at once and John wondered how that was even possible.

He registered the lyrics, had listened to them closely. He knew exactly what this was about, for he had felt exactly the same way. It had been one look and his world had changed. He hadn’t yet known the magnitude of that moment, but he had felt something shift irrevocably.

**_If you'd cried out for more_ **

**_If you'd reached out for me_ **

**_I would've run into the storm_ **

**_Just to keep you here with me_ **

John’s heart clenched, ached with the regret of all the lost opportunities. They’d wasted so much time. They could have avoided so much pain, so much hurt. John understood, he could feel Sherlock’s suffering, the tight tangle of contradictory emotions, of regret and gratitude. That they had been allowed to find each other. That they had missed the chance to be more. 

**_I had gone beyond my years_ **

**_I'd wasted half my life_ **

**_But I found it all in you_ **

**_Did I save you?_ **

**_'Cause I know you saved me too_ **

_‘Oh God, Sherlock. Tell me this is not what this is about! You must know! You have to know how many times you’ve saved me!’,_ John hoped he had misunderstood. Was Sherlock still doubting himself? But it all made sense. _‘It makes bloody sense!’_ John thought. _‘All his talking about hurting me. All his guilt and self-sacrifice… as if he has to repay a debt. As if he owes me…’_ Slowly it dawned on John. Sherlock, who had given up everything and put his own life in the line of fire to protect him; Sherlock who was the reason that John was still alive… He still didn’t know his value in John’s life. Sherlock needed to know! John had to make sure he did! Involuntarily he took a step in Sherlock’s direction and almost bumped against him when the man suddenly stood right in front of him. 

Sherlock was breathing hard, his chest quickly rising and falling. He stood so close that John’s eyes were immediately drawn to the hollow at the base of his throat. A thin sheen of sweat covered the skin and made it shine in the sunlight. The smell of it mingled with the cologne made John a bit lightheaded. The intensity of Sherlock’s dance had caused more buttons of his shirt to pop free and allowed John a free view on Sherlock's collar bones and the top of his well defined pecs. His eyes followed the stretch of Sherlock’s throat up, over his clean shaven chin and the parted lips, puffing out harsh breaths which mingled with John’s. When he met Sherlock’s eyes his whole body was flooded by hot liquid fire. Sherlock’s gaze was heated, full of barely contained desire. John felt devoured by his eyes alone. He’d never survive to touch this man, he thought.

John’s breath hitched when Sherlock reached up and crumpled John’s collar in a tight grip. Sherlock pulled him closer, face to face, stared at him with an intensity to melt whole mountains. He only held him, breathing, roaming his face. They were so close, John could feel the heat of Sherlock’s body gather in the narrow space between them. Sherlock’s hand on his collar trembled, his whole body vibrated with the effort it took to hold back. John held his breath, didn’t dare to move. How was he supposed to survive this?

**_Let me take a step towards you_ **

**_Let me feel you in my hands_ **

**_Let me cross this line and show you where it leads_ **

Suddenly, in a flash he let go of John and jolted back. Not far from John but out of reach. Resuming his rock star pose, eyes closed, breath sharp. As if out of its own volition his hand reached up, slid up his chest to the base of his throat on which stretched tendons and bolding veins were expressing the tension Sherlock was containing. 

**_There's a darkness down inside me_ **

**_That I know we'll both enjoy_ **

**_And it's screaming from within to set it free_ **

Sherlock took several deep breaths, letting them out in a rush, suspiciously resembling a sob. But before John had a chance to take a closer look, to act, to approach him, Sherlock turned away from John and dove back into his dance.

**_******_ **

Oh God, that had been close. Close close close close close. No, not here. Not yet. He wasn't done yet. He had to get this out. 

When he turned he was able to breathe again. He tried to get a grip on himself, some defined steps, something that needed strength but was calming. Arabesque stretched to the extreme, back bent, abbs straining. Developé high, higher, until his muscles burned, his inner thighs felt torn. He let his upper body fall to the side, evade the strain, the pain; dove into the deep. Turned, resurfaced. Better.

He needed to let go of the past, but he didn’t want to abandon it. It had brought him here. No past, no John. He needed to re-evaluate, to re-arrange. Find a way to include the good things of the past into the new version of himself. There had to be a new him.

**_I have left this bloody nightmare_ **

**_In my wake but out of sight_ **

**_All I want is deviation by design_ **

He knew he was able to do that. Ever since John he knew that he was able to redefine himself, that there was no need to give in, to give up. He learned that he was able to withstand the outside world. He had found a reason to be a better man. John had to understand that he was the person who had done that. 

**_Out of all the past confusion_ **

**_Out of all the common spite_ **

**_Just tell me I am yours 'cause you are mine_ **

He felt himself being washed away by the music, thrown on the shore and pulled back into the deepest waters. His body and his soul were torn back and forth, turned, tumbled. 

**_And if you cried out for more_ **

**_If you reached out for me_ **

**_I would run into the storm_ **

**_Just to keep you here with me_ **

He tried to get it back under control. It was like a force breaking free, a wild creature having been captured for far too long. He had to tame it. He had to face it.

**_I have gone beyond my years_ **

**_I've wasted half my life_ **

**_But I found it all in you_ **

**_Did I save you?_ **

**_'Cause I know you saved me too_ **

He circled John with wide leaps, sharp turns in between to reign in his speed. A blurred version of John whirled before his eyes. John was turning too, following him, facing him, always. 

He had no idea why, but it calmed him, grounded him. John kept an eye on him.

He came to a halt, tried to catch his breath. The picture of John before him, wide eyed, becoming clearer, steadier. Steadying himself in return. 

This is what they were—each other's counter balance. Affecting each other, correcting each other. Complementing each other. Together they were in equilibrium, harmony. Like a perpetuum mobile. 

He'd do everything for this man.

**_It doesn't matter what you do or say_ **

**_I'm never going anywhere anyway_ **

**_'Cause when I'm dying for you_ **

**_I've never felt so alive_ **

He heard John gasp, hadn't realised that he had closed his eyes. When he looked at him again, John was running one hand through his hair, grasping it, clenching his fist. The other hand still held the phone the way Sherlock had given it to him. His face was a mask of pain, fear, sorrow, regret. And love. So much love. 

"Christ, Sherlock…" he whispered, his voice was strangled. Sherlock could hear it loud and clear though. It reverberated deep within, thrumming, vibrating, until it reached his core.

He twisted, spiralling in on himself. His body broke free, stretching, tense like a bow.

**_If you cry out for more_ **

**_If you reach out for me_ **

**_I will run into the storm_ **

**_Just to keep you here with me_ **

With John's face burned into his memory, he tried to break the last chains, with all his strength he forced his body to give everything he had. He'd always give everything if it meant that he could erase that expression on John's face. 

**_I am gone beyond my years_ **

**_I wasted half my life_ **

**_But I found it all in you_ **

**_Did I save you?_ **

**_'Cause I know you saved me too_ **

The shirt was plastered against his back, sweat clinging to his whole body, chilling the air that was brushing over his torso. As if through mist his mind slowly registered that this didn't feel right. Something was different. His chest was bare. His shirt must have been torn fully open then. The familiar strain of his trousers around his thighs, against his hips was comforting. At least something that held him together. Boundaries when he felt as if he were falling apart. 

**_I know you saved me too_ **

The music died down and a kind of exhaustion took hold of him that had nothing to do with physical overexertion. His knees gave in and he sank to the floor. His knees hit hard and he leaned forwards to steady himself on his hands. His head hanging between his shoulders he tried to regulate his breathing, but he couldn't. The air got stuck in his throat, he felt like choking, when suddenly there were hands steadying him. Like from afar he heard John's voice seep into his dizzy consciousness.

"Christ, Sherlock…" 

There it was again. But it sounded different. Closer, softer.

"Sherlock, breathe! Come on, breathe for me." 

Hands stroked damp hair out of his face, cradled it, held him. 

"Sherlock, look at me." 

Close, so close. Right in front of him.

"Please…"

How was it possible to feel a whisper? 

Slowly he tore his eyes open, momentarily blinded by the sun. Had it been this bright before? The more his eyes got used to it the more John's face took shape. 

Right in front of him. So close.

"There you are." A relieved smile bloomed on John's lips, making his eyes warm and soft. 

John's hands held him together, squeezing his shoulders, rubbing over his upper arms, stroking over his back, between his shoulder blades, up along his spine. Fingertips tickling his curls. Soft palms cradling his face.

"Breathe, love." John said softly. And Sherlock did. His lungs sucked the air in greedily. He gulped it in; it almost burned him from the inside.

"Oh thank God," John said under his breath. He leaned forward and dotted Sherlock's face with tiny little kisses, which left tingling specks behind until Sherlock's whole face felt like it was covered in sparkling glitter. "You're amazing," John whispered. "That was unbelievable." Between two kisses. "Jesus Sherlock." Pressing their foreheads together. 

"John…" he leaned slightly backwards, sitting on his heels. He wanted to say something but was cut short by the intensity with which John held his gaze. The silence stretched and for a long time they were only watching each other, studying each other, absorbing each other's sight. Connected by their gazes alone but bound with everything they were. 

Without moving, without breaking their eye contact, with a low and tender voice, which nonetheless seemed to fill the whole building, John simply said, "Thank you, Sherlock!" 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the chapter can be found here:
> 
> [Movement](https://youtu.be/OSye8OO5TkM) (If you like the thought of Sherlock dancing, I really really recommend watching this vid!! The fun thing is: I swear to whomever that I didn't know this vid before starting this fic, thinking of the location and all that stuff. I didn't even know it the moment I chose this song. I only recently discovered this version and couldn't believe my eyes!!! Really, watch it!!)
> 
> [Song #3](https://youtu.be/fb63qCgowYI)
> 
> [Playlist "Shatter Me"](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLLyXzbDSBo_hlI3eIe9OqdLP_WoH-C_Zh)


	19. Saved Me Anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In silent agreement they refrained from taking a cab even though it meant a walk of an hour to get back. It would give them time to adjust to the new situation. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to have John back at 221B, at the same time he was nervous. What would it mean to come home as more than just friends? How much more than friends were they now? Were there expectations? Or rules on how to behave? Did John have expectations? They hadn't particularly defined their status, they hadn't even clearly vocalised it yet. Was it what Sherlock thought it was and wanted it to be? What if John didn't mean it the way Sherlock thought he did? What if…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> this is me officially giving up on the attempt to write short chapters for this fic. The boys just won't have it. *shrug* ... As I don't want to interrupt the two of them any longer than nescessary I have nothing more to add today; except: I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Love you all to bits,  
> me xxx
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to songs within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

(…

Without moving, without breaking their eye contact, with a low and tender voice, which nonetheless seemed to fill the whole building, John simply said, "Thank you, Sherlock!")

************

“What for?” asked Sherlock, still slightly out of breath.

The adorable crinkle appeared above Sherlock’s nose which usually caused some fond amusement. Although this time it made something churn in John’s belly which felt suspiciously like fury; which was most definitely not directed at Sherlock but at everything and everyone that had made this man. He might claim that he had made himself, but John was convinced that he could have been so much more—trusting, self-confident, happier—if he weren’t burdened by some nasty experiences and toxic external influences in the past. He wanted to chase them all and make them pay in every possible way for what they had done to Sherlock. However, that wasn’t possible and in no way was Sherlock going to be the one to bear his temper right now. Quite the opposite actually. John swore to himself that from now on he’d try to be the counterbalance to those experiences as best he could. 

“For everything.” John said, plainly. “Just for… everything.” He shrugged. Sherlock still looked puzzled so he continued. “For everything you’ve done for me, Sherlock. For existing in the first place,” he gave Sherlock a tiny smile, “for choosing _me_ to have around.” At this point Sherlock’s brow furrowed and John couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “For saving my poor arse once and again, for coming back to me.” He swallowed hard. “For giving me a second chance.” The sudden understanding of the magnitude of his own gratitude felt like a punch in the gut and he had to pause to get back on track.

“No, John,” Sherlock shook his head slowly, face still pensive. “That’s what I just tried to do... to tell you how important you are to me. I hoped that you might understand what you mean to me. It’s me who has to thank you. You’ve made me a better person, John. Who I am now. I am because of you!”

“But you did exactly the same for me!” John said fiercely, trying to convey the message. 

“No, John,” Sherlock chuckled a bit sadly, “you don’t understand. You didn't know me before; the me before you.” For a short moment Sherlock’s face seemed to relax and a tender expression took over. When he spoke again it was less sombre but still very earnestly. “I really was that sociopath I claimed to be when I met you.”

“No!” John wouldn’t let him enter those areas of his self-awareness again. He thought they were long over it. “Sherlock, listen to me, you’re not a sociopath and you have never been!”

“Not since you, no.” Sherlock studied him with wonder in his eyes as if this was the first time he saw him. “I have always been a selfish bastard. Never taking other people’s feelings into account. Then you came and you showed me that I was able to care for others after all.”

“That’s rubbish, Sherlock.” John interfered. “You always did. What about Mrs Hudson, Greg, your homeless people, your parents. Yeah, even Mycroft? What about them? You knew them all long before me.”

“Apparently that was different. It was never enough to stop me. I always only thought about satisfying my own needs and cravings. In my line of thinking back then it was only logical. You know, at the end of the day we're only responsible for ourselves. And if everyone cares for themselves then why bother and care for each other. If others didn’t share my opinion it was solely their own problem.” He shrugged a bit defensively. “Even more, if we’re isolated systems, our lives have no influence or meaning whatsoever, we exist only for the sake of existing. We're nothing in the big scheme of time. That means our lives and therefore my own life was worthless. So why care?” Sherlock looked miserable, clearly no longer feeling what he was recalling from his past.

“Oh, Sherlock, no…” John felt a ball of tightly knotted sympathy replace the former anger. He reached forward to run a hand over Sherlock’s thigh. They were both crouching now facing each other, sitting on their heels, knees bumping together. A bit like the stereotypical figures on those awfully gaudy paintings found at almost every asian restaurant they were frequenting, thought John amused. The mental picture helped him a bit to ease the misery he felt at listening to Sherlock. 

“And suddenly, you came limping in my lab.” He gave John a crooked smile and once again John felt the deep gratitude to have this man his life. “And risking my life wasn’t all that fun anymore.” A deep rumbling chuckle escaped his throat. “Well, only if you were around to rescue me last minute. _That_ was even more fun.” A genuine warm smile had relaxed Sherlock’s features and John could detect traces of the easiness of their early days together. What the fuck had happened to them, John thought. They should just have run off together into the sunset that first evening and never turn back around. But that hadn’t happened, had it? What had happened was _‘I’m married to my work.’_ As if Sherlock had read his mind he continued.

“Only… it didn’t match any of my former convictions. It wasn’t logical, damnit.” Sherlock growled the last bit and ran agitatedly one hand through his hair. “It scared me and that in itself is unsettling when nothing was supposed to matter anyway.”

“I get it now,” John said, soothingly. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Sherlock still sounded wary. 

“Yes.” John held Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze steadily. “You did the same for me, Sherlock.”

“You _changed_ me, John. Deep within. I’m a different man than I’ve been before.” He said, urgently. “You turned my world upside down.”

“Yes.” John simply said. Sherlock squinted his eyes, blinked, uncomprehending.

“You didn't know me before either.” John shrugged.

“That’s not the same.” Sherlock huffed.

“No? Is it not?” John tilted his head and looked at Sherlock daringly. When nothing came forth John nodded satisfied and continued. 

“Can I show you one of my songs, too?” John asked cautiously. When Sherlock hesitated he added, “I’ll explain along, yeah? It’s just… it’s so damn fitting.” He searched Sherlock’s eyes. “And yeah, I never thought I’d show it to you either.” The thought made him smile. “But that’s good, no? Because now we can!” He looked for Sherlock’s confirmation and was happy when it came.

“Yes, that’s good. Very good.” He said low but steady.

“So… that’s a yes?” John checked.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock smiled, a bit mockingly, a bit adoringly.

“Good.” John roamed with his hands over his trouser pockets, searching the floor with his eyes. “Damn,” he finally hissed. “my phone. On the kitchen floor still.” 

“You still have mine, don’t you?” Sherlock asked, a bit insecure.

“Of course I have,” he reached into his breast pocket and pulled Sherlock’s phone out. It was warmed by his own body heat. 

“Just unlock it,” Sherlock stopped him, when he wanted to hand it over.

“Don’t know the code,” John shrugged and looked expectantly at Sherlock, who locked eyes with him and said calmly, “5646” John typed it in slowly as was his habit, the screen unlocked and only afterwards it dawned on him. His head snapped up and stared at Sherlock. “Really?”

“Chemical defect,” Sherlock shrugged, his lips twitched.

John huffed, pleased, and went looking for the song. Once he found it, he placed the phone on top of their joined knees. 

“This…” he pointed with his finger at the phone, “made me think of _you._ And of me, obviously.” He took a deep steadying breath, trying to gather some courage. He had never shared this before. With no-one, not even Ella. “Here we go then.”

tap

[*play* ](https://youtu.be/LM9L7QrQVZ0)

**_I've been looking through my mirror_ **

**_With somebody else's eyes_ **

**_You broke me down_ **

**_You fixed my blood stained crown_ **

**_I've been looking through my window_ **

**_At somebody else's world_ **

**_You let me fall_ **

**_Right through your open door_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

tap ****

*stop*

“The life I lived before I met you, was never my own.” He had to clear his throat. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Even looking back I don’t know which choices were my own and which were just me meeting the expectations I thought were demanded of me. I wanted to make my parents proud, it was about the only way to gain some affection, you know,” Sherlock’s hand settled over his own which was still resting on Sherlock’s thigh. “So the army it was, which was okay because I felt like doing something useful. And guns… yeah, I liked guns to be honest.” Sherlock raised one eyebrow and regarded him smugly. John threw him a ‘you’re one to talk’-stare back and Sherlock sheepishly avoided his gaze. 

Feeling sillily triumphant John continued. “And medicine, that was for my mum; she was a nurse, always admired the doctors. Medicine was good though, because I liked helping people. So, everyone happy, right? Oh yeah, and blending in was a big goal, too, after things went downwards with Harry. My role was the nice bloke from next door, never drawing attention.” He huffed; the memories beige and faint, stuffed into the farest corners of his mind. Sherlock watched him attentively, listening silently. “But that never really felt like me. You know… Boring!” He rolled his eyes and gave his best Sherlock-imitation. They exchanged private little grins, before John sobered and went on with what he needed to say. 

“I wanted to break free, but had no idea how and what for. So I just went along and looked for other ways to get 'something different',” he mimicked the quotations, as he remembered never having known what exactly the ‘different’ was supposed to be. “Within the norms there weren’t many options though. I got restless, reckless. Started out with rugby. The rawness of it felt good. I wanted more, so I started to hang out with the blokes, joined in with their tough guy stuff of course.” He threw an apologetic and slightly awkward glance in Sherlock’s direction. John was grateful when Sherlock answered with a tiny nod to signal him to continue, that it was okay.

“There were girls and alcohol. Loads of alcohol.” He took a deep breath, this part of his history was still following him everywhere. Reaching out for the bottle when times get rough was still the simplest way to cope in his experience. Not very helpful though. “I lived a life going back and forth from pubs to sports fields and to the beds of girls whose names I’ve long since forgotten. Learned stuff at uni I’d never have any use for and never wanted to know. Went home to a family that didn’t care, went back to friends I didn’t care for. Actually I didn’t care about anything really. Nothing held any importance. Life in general wasn’t important.” He swallowed. He felt Sherlock squeeze his hand and he tightened his grip on Sherlock’s thigh in response. He shrugged, a little ‘see, I told you’ gesture. Sherlock looked distressed, but there was nothing to it. It had to get out. Sherlock needed to understand.

“It suited me just fine, when I joined the army though. Surgery and ER are great to provide some excitement one doesn’t get anywhere else. After a while though, you know all the ins and outs. You get bored and indifferent—at least I did. You start asking yourself, why rescue the life of some drunken bloke who got himself crashed in his car. Or stitch them all up after a stabbing only to see them back the next day with a bullet in their fucking silly brains.” He felt the old annoyment well up again. “I was so glad to escape to Afghanistan, I can’t even tell you. I felt I was _finally_ doing something useful. Ending a war, you know,” he chuckled and Sherlock joined in. He caught a low murmured ‘all by yourself’ and threw Sherlock a glance who looked back with an open and honest smile; like the one after their first night out, in the hallway, when Angelo had brought back his cane, John thought. He smiled back, “To be honest? I just wanted to get away. Start over, pretend to be a good human being. Which I was not...”

“That’s absolute nonsense,” Sherlock interrupted him, surprisingly sharp. 

“It’s not, Sherlock. You didn’t know me at that time.” He picked the mute phone up from their knees, parted his to shuffle a bit closer. His inner thighs pressed against Sherlock’s legs, he was able to reach higher. He pushed the phone into Sherlock’s one unoccupied hand and reached up to place his hands on his hips. He pushed his thumbs through the pointless belt loops. Why bother with belt loops on bespoke trousers? Sherlock never wears any belts! And for a moment John wondered why he knew this. He tugged slightly on the loops to underline the gravity of his next words.

“I wasn’t a good man, Sherlock. The same indifference took hold of me, because that wasn’t what I wanted either. A war that was impossible to win, at times I wasn’t even sure if we were the good guys or the bad guys. But I stayed anyway, because I didn’t care. I killed people and I saved people’s lives back to back, Sherlock. And I didn’t care. Wrong uniform? Kill! Right uniform? Save! That is all it was.” He felt drained. He had never admitted all that. Had never even voiced his thoughts, the guilt he felt. The disgust. Nausea churned his stomach, pictures of bloodied bodies of all kinds welling up from the depth of his memory. Then suddenly there were Sherlock’s hands slowly sliding up his back, cradling the base of his skull and gently guiding him until his forehead rested against Sherlock’s shoulder. John let out a shuddering breath. The hands steadied him, held him. He felt Sherlock rest his cheek against the top of his head. The tenderness of that gesture broke the dam he was trying to keep up, his breath turned into a sigh, into a sob and suddenly he felt his face wet with tears he hadn't known he still had to cry over this. He thought he had left all this behind a long time ago. This chapter was closed, goddamnit. 

“And then,” John said with a thick tear-drained voice, “there was you. And you were everything I was always searching for. You didn’t need to kill people to live in a warzone. You didn’t have to fix every criminal’s life to be able to save those in need. And most of all, you didn’t want to please anyone. You didn’t want to fit in, you were just you.” The tears were falling freely now. “And you were amazing. Not a fucking hypocrite, like I was.” 

“John, stop this.” Sherlock said softly and pulled him a bit closer. His one arm encircled his back, the other still cradling the back of his head, fingers brushing over the strands of his hair.

John let himself sink into the sensation of being held. He had difficulties recalling if he had ever been held like this—as if someone deeply cared. He came up blank. Neither his mother, nor his father were very physical; later at uni he had pals and mates… absolutely no comforting hugs there. And with his lovers it had always been him who had done the comforting. He was the super-caring doctor bloke after all, a shoulder to lean on. He had never realised how desperately he needed such a shoulder himself. Until now.

They stayed like that for a while. No words, just silence. And closeness. Each man chasing his own thoughts.

Eventually, Sherlock slowly ran his hands over John’s back and shoulders.

“Do you want to go on?” He asked quietly into John’s ear. His voice hummed against the shell of John's ear and sent a tingling over his scalp. John shivered. After a deep breath he nodded but didn’t sit up. Sherlock’s hand appeared in his line of sight, holding the phone, offering it to him. Giving the control back to him. This small gesture almost made him tear up again, but he cleared his throat, accepted the phone and continued the song. Leaning against Sherlock he listened to the next few verses.

tap

*play*

**_I've been running hard on empty_ **

**_Sinking deeper in the sand_ **

**_You let me down_ **

**_Right on to solid ground_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

tap

*stop*

“I was always looking for the next rush of adrenaline,” John said out of the blue, without further announcement. He sat up and looked at Sherlock who only reluctantly let go of him. “You were right, I’m an addict, I always have been. Always looking for the next fix. I never stayed long, I never committed myself to anything. Army and medicine, perfect place to be for that. Easy to hide behind a long-term contract with only one hospital or signing up for a tour abroad for several years… yeah,” he huffed dismissively, “good old dutiful and loyal John Watson.” He looked down at their hands. Sherlock’s hand almost fully covered his. For some reason it was a calming and reassuring sight. 

“But you _are_ all of that, John. I’ve never known a person more dutiful or loyal than you.” Sherlock said, sounded insecure, as if he was afraid to have misunderstood. John was somehow a bit proud of him for speaking up. He smiled at him, showing that he had noticed; that he appreciated it. It was most uncomfortable and painful, but also freeing and necessary.

“I am. For you. You see? That’s what I mean. Before I was never happier than when I had to help out on a different ward, got extra shifts, had difficult cases on my operating table. Everyone knew me, everyone liked me; I was as nice as I could be, but for me they were all interchangeable and I was glad when I didn't have to spend too much time with the same people. Nurses, doctors, patients; they were useful, some were nice enough to have around; no-one stuck.”

"Mike Stamford stuck…" Sherlock tried.

"No, Mike Stamford was heaven-sent." John laughed and Sherlock huffed. "Honestly though, I hadn't seen or spoken to Mike for years. He was one of those who were nice enough to have around. And apparently I've been nice enough around him to be remembered. I just met him by pure chance and at first I didn't even recognise him. If it wasn't for him calling after me, we'd never have met." 

The sheer luck they'd had filled John with deep humility and awe. It had been one of the rare occasions that the stars had aligned. John refused to think that it was just coincidence; this wasn't just the deed of a lazy universe. John smiled fondly at Sherlock and reached out to caress his cheek.

"Mike Stamford was fate. We were meant to be." he said, grinning because he knew exactly how overdone it sounded. 

"Sentiment." Sherlock growled as expected. It didn't stop him from nuzzling into John's palm though.

"But you see? Not even an exceptionally nice guy as Mike had been able to gain my attention. Nobody and nothing had. When something was new it was fun, but everything and everyone was boring after a while. So on I went, looking for the next shot of happiness. Everything that interrupted the dullness was welcome… work, the army, getting pissed, a quick fuck preferably in a different bed each night." 

He felt Sherlock slightly flinch at that, so he cleared his throat, straightened his back. Maybe this was ridiculous, it was just Sherlock and him here. But this felt somehow fundamental. 

“I’m an addict.” he said calmly and clear voiced. “Drugs of choice: adrenaline, alcohol and…,” he pulled a face, “well, uhm, sex.” A hint of pink crept up Sherlock's cheeks. "Yes, I loved all that. I needed that. I thought that was it, that was life. For a while I even thought that was happiness. But you showed me that it's not."

Sherlock made attempts to shift, looked uncomfortable with what John was saying. His lips twitched as if trying to find a counterargument. 

John stopped him with the next verse. He needed Sherlock to listen, not to overthink. 

tap

*play*

**_When everyone left me_ **

**_You loved me like no one else_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

tap

*stop*

"It's true, Sherlock, listen…" he cleared his throat. John tried to explain, to make him understand. "When it all fell apart when I got shot, I realised I had nothing left. I wasn't in any state to use any of the tools I relied on to be happy. None of them were even remotely accessible at that point! My life was a fucking hell."

"John," Sherlock tried to interrupt him, but John held one finger up to stop him. Sherlock clicked his mouth shut again.

"And then you happened." John shrugged a bit bashful. "You just came barging in my life, pulled me along, made no demands. And, yeah… you saw me. Like no-one ever had."

"That's just what I do." Sherlock said humble. Apparently it was difficult for him to accept what John was trying to tell him.

"It is." John confirmed. Because it was true, no need to deny that. Although it wasn't that simple. "That doesn't make it any less special though. And it was exactly what I needed at that point. But that wasn't all…" Sherlock was fiddling with John's fingers, pinching the skin on the back of John's hand. He was nervous John realised. As much as he craved it, Sherlock had difficulties to accept praise which wasn't simple adoration of his skills but heartfelt appreciation of his person, of who he was. John stored that insight away for later. He'd have to work on that.

"You also showed me what real passion and dedication to work looks like. You had a purpose in life and you shared it with me and with that you gave me one, too. Without knowing you also taught me that one doesn't need substances to feel high. A good chase through the streets of London can do that for you." He winked at Sherlock who luckily smirked back. 

"And I never thought I'd say this and I can't believe I'm saying it now, but… you also helped me by cock-blocking all my dates." He drew his eyebrows together and mockingly glared at Sherlock, who barked out a laugh which was beautifully echoed by the expanse of the hall around them. 

"How so?" Sherlock still chuckled.

"I never missed them." John stated matter of fact. Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "As much as I might have longed for those dates because I thought I'd desperately need to get a leg over," he cleared his throat. This wasn't particularly familiar ground for them to talk about. But that needed to change anyway, didn't it? "Well, afterwards, when we were chasing one criminal or another? Or even during the most boring stake outs? Which you could have done perfectly well on your own by the way…" he raised one eyebrow at Sherlock who only shrugged as if to say "obviously". "Anyway, I never thought twice about them. I didn't actually need them. It took me a while, old habits and all that, but at some point I realised that it was enough. We were enough. I’d rather spend time with you than with some random woman." 

Sherlock looked stunned and John marveled at the feeling to finally come clean with everything. 

"So, all in all one could say, you healed me. Not only my limp." John nodded because… yes, that was the essence of it.

"But then, there's still your love for risky cases and there's the regular pint with Lestrade. And probably also sexual intercourse." Sherlock contemplated.

"With Greg?" John teased. Sherlock's eyes grew wider and wider until John nudged him in his thigh and Sherlock huffed and averted his eyes. Apparently he was embarrassed to have given that serious consideration.

"Yes, it's true, I still enjoy it. But it's not everything I have and need anymore. Let's call it 'controlled usage' now." he winked. "My addiction only acts up when my source of happiness is absent." He waited to let this sink in. He hoped it did. "It's you who healed me, Sherlock! It's a fact! You trust facts." John grinned, enjoying beating Sherlock with his own weapons. To signal that this topic didn't need any further discussion in his opinion right now, he tapped the button again.

tap

*play*

**_I had hope in my heart_ **

**_That you'd run for me, 'cause I'd done it all_ **

**_Now I feel in my heart that you've come for me_ **

**_You lead me home_ **

tap

*stop*

"You know, all this time now, when I thought I've lost you… again…," John swallowed. Sherlock cleared his throat and winced.

"John, you know now why…" he tried to stop the direction the conversation was taking. 

"Yes, I know! I know. That's not what I wanted to say." he turned his hand around so that he was free to run his fingers over Sherlock's skin. "All this time though, I tried to tell you a lot of things. That I'd want us to be closer again, that I'd give you space, that I'd have your back, that I won't leave, that I'd fight for you… for us, that I love you…," he intently looked into Sherlock's eyes saying that; he had the suspicion that the message still wasn't fully received. "But I never thought that this is what you needed to hear. It has always been obvious to me. You saved me Sherlock. Many times and in many ways!"

Sherlock's eyes moistened and a lump formed in John's throat.

"And when I thought I had lost you again," he croaked. "Sherlock, you can't imagine…"

"I can." Sherlock said with a tears laden voice.

"I looked everywhere, Sherlock. I couldn't find you. I felt so helpless, so useless… I almost went crazy…" 

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, shoulders hunched, head hanging.

"No!" John said forcefully and dropped the phone between them to have both hands free to grab Sherlock's face, to force him to look at him. "No, not the point. Listen to me, alright? Just… listen. What I wanted to say is, when I thought I'd lost you again I realised the only thing I wished for was to have another chance, to make it up to you. I wanted a chance to prove myself, to show you how much you mean to me." His heart pounded fiercely in his chest. Why was this so insanely difficult? He even felt his hands tremble; Sherlock took hold of his wrists and lowered their arms to rest on his lap. On the way down he pressed a kiss on each of John's palms and then covered it with his own hand. A kiss held close and safe.

"And now that you've decided to give us this chance," John continued with a lump in his throat, "I think we can do it. I really think we can make this work, if only we do it together. I'm not wasting this chance, okay? I promise you to do better." He swallowed. Damn, the intensity of the emotions almost choked him. He had to get this out. He wanted to. He forced himself to go on, his voice rough and a bit shaky. "I’m not the man you thought I was; I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point. Who you thought I was ... is the man who I want to be. You make me a better man, Sherlock." 

He watched the man in front of him and tried to take in every miniscule detail. The ruffled hair, the red rimmed eyes, the trembling parted lips, the adam's apple trying to swallow something away, the expanse of pale skin underneath that parted shirt, dusty bespoke trousers, knees digging into the dirt on the floor, legs framed by his own, hands still tightly pressed against his. 

He guided their hands carefully to his face, cautious to not lose contact. Once in front of his mouth he detached their palms, but instead of aiming for Sherlock's he pressed his lips against his own palm. He watched Sherlock closely and saw his eyes widen the moment he realised what John was doing—he took Sherlock's kiss over from his hand like from a blueprint. He licked his lips and Sherlock swallowed audibly.

"So…" John said, stretched, intent, determined. 

He made a show from pressing the button with more force than necessary while still holding Sherlock's gaze.

tap

*play*

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

"You saved me, Sherlock Holmes. Just accept that fact." he said over the lyrics.

**_When everyone left me_ **

**_You loved me like no one else_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

"Without you I wouldn't be here. Not in this room, not even in this life." 

Sherlock made an attempt to say something, but John stopped him, pressing a finger against his lips.

**_Baby, you saved me from myself_ **

**_Baby, you saved me from myself_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

"I told you before, but I'll tell you again; you're the most human human being I've ever known. I was so alone and I owe you so much. And you don't owe me anything."

**_When everyone left me_ **

**_You loved me like no one else_ **

**_You came and saved me_ **

**_You saved me from myself_ **

When the music gave way to the silence again, John took a deep breath of air that smelled like washed clean of all the dust that had made it heavy and thick.

"So," he cleared his throat, "let's try that again, shall we?" He waited until he was sure Sherlock was one hundred percent with him. Then said with emphasis, "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock's gaze was wandering over John's face as if searching for clues to confirm his sincerity. Then, after only a few minutes which felt like an eternity he seemed to relax.

"Thank you, John Watson." he said low and deep. And it felt as if they'd just made a pact.

*********

John smiled faintly, pleased, and Sherlock could relate. It felt like they'd taken a huge step, one of the most important of all. There was a weight taken off his shoulders. Even if a different one was put in its place. Though, the former one had seemed like an unsolvable burden, a debt he didn't know how to repay, a currency he didn't know how to spend. However the second one was a purpose, a commitment—to make sure that John Watson never had to live a life that didn't feel like his own ever again; to make sure he never again thought his life was not important or worthless.

John stood without another word and obviously tried to hide how hard it was to stretch after having crounched for so long. Sherlock tried not to show his fond amusement. John tried to pat the dust off his trouser legs but gave it up quickly. He looked down at Sherlock and held out his hand.

“Let’s go home, shall we?” He said and Sherlock’s heart did a funny little jump.

“Home, John?” Not fair that his voice was shaky, he didn’t want to sound doubtful or questioning. Although, he’d love to have a confirmation that it was meant the way Sherlock craved. Of course John noticed and smiled at him.

"Yeah, you know? That scruffy flat that means hope and refuge when life gets too strange or frightening? Where those two men use to sit arguing like they've always been there?" John was still smiling and holding out his hand. "They always will, Sherlock!" 

Sherlock was close to tears, again. He was so grateful for this silly man in his life. How did he deserve this? He took John's hand and let himself be pulled up.

"Yes, home." he just said. What else was there to say?

He picked up his shoes and socks and reluctantly put them on. He would have loved to feel London underneath his bare feet, but even he had to admit that there were too many undefined substances covering the pavements. He rolled down his trouser legs because it would look ridiculous otherwise and started to button up his shirt. When he caught John looking, well rather staring actually, he smirked and intentionally left one or maybe two buttons more open than usual. John cleared his throat and looked away. Sherlock was very pleased with himself. He also left his sleeves rolled up, having the unfamiliar urge to let his skin be covered by the sunlight and the London air. 

In silent agreement they refrained from taking a cab even though it meant a walk of an hour to get back. It would give them time to adjust to the new situation. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to have John back at 221B, at the same time he was nervous. What would it mean to come home as more than just friends? How much more than friends were they now? Were there expectations? Or rules on how to behave? Did John have expectations? They hadn't particularly defined their status, they hadn't even clearly vocalised it yet. Was it what Sherlock thought it was and wanted it to be? What if John didn't mean it the way Sherlock thought he did? What if…

His thoughts came to a halt when he felt a warm hand searching his; fingers intertwining. He looked around and realised they had already made their way outside of the power station and its surrounding area. How had he missed it, how could he waste all those precious minutes with John. He willed himself to stay in the moment, John's hand in his anchoring him, pulling him into the present. 

John's hand! Only now did he become aware of the significance of the gesture. They were out in the open, in public. No longer sheltered at Baker Street or in a cab, no longer hidden by the thick walls of the engine room. For everyone to see John had taken his hand and held it steadily. That had to mean something, hadn't it? He kept the private little smile hidden inside his mouth but could feel it spread its warmth on his face and down his neck, his chest, his arms. Would John be able to feel it in his palm? 

John had chosen the less frequented way over Chelsea Bridge for them and Sherlock was grateful for it. Not that he had anything to hide, but there were already enough impressions and sensations to process and he needed all his senses and attention to not miss anything. He couldn't afford to misstep, in any sense of the word.

They were halfway across the bridge when he felt John tightening his grip for a second.

"You know, this feels a bit surreal. When I walked this way this morning, this was what I hoped for. But at that point it was nothing more than imagination." he said. Sherlock frowned.

"What do you mean 'you walked this way' this morning?" he looked questioningly at John. The man seemed puzzled himself before realisation brightened his features.

"Right, of course, you wouldn't know." he said. "I stayed at Greg's after I… left Baker Street." Apparently, John felt uncomfortable. Sherlock wondered why?

"Greg's?" Sherlock asked, curious now.

"Yeah. Gavin? Graham? Lestrade? Remember that guy?" John teased him and raised his eyebrows. But Sherlock wasn't in the mood for it. He honestly didn't know nor understand; why would John make fun of him.

"Not what I meant…" Sherlock grumbled. John studied him for a moment. 

"You really didn't know." For some reason John's face lit up coming to that conclusion. 

"Obviously." Sherlock's mood threatened to shift. 

"And I thought you'd deliberately chosen not to come by." John huffed a laugh and stopped in his tracks. He pointed across the street. "See that pier over there, in the distance?"

They were on the wrong side of the street but Sherlock spotted it anyway. Didn't need to actually as he knew it was there.

"Of course I do. The Cadogan Pier. Of course I know. One time there was this smuggler that I located on…"

"Sherlock," John interrupted him. "Did you know that Greg lives on one of those boats?"

"Oh." Sherlock's mouth clicked shut. "No, I didn't." Maybe he should have paid more attention to the man's ramblings about his private life. He must have made a fitting face to his disgruntled mood, because John started laughing. 

"Calm down, genius," he chuckled, "no need to panic. I didn't know either." 

"Well, that's not exactly an appropriate standard for comparison to calm my mind, now is it?" he huffed.

"Oi!" John bumped his shoulder against Sherlock's upper arm. And just like that the mood settled into familiar companionship again. It was reassuring; they were still their former selves; John still knew exactly how to take Sherlock's banter. 

They continued their way in comfortable silence. They left the bridge behind, made their way into the delicately woven web of London's streets. Sherlock matched his steps to John's shorter ones and revelled in their closeness; in their shoulders bumping against each other while walking, his bare forearm brushing against the fabric of John's shirt, their legs sliding one against the other when they lost their rhythm for a moment… which barely happened. John had to bend his arm slightly upwards to be able to hold Sherlock's hand. Sherlock found that extremely cute, although he would never let the man know. If that was the reason that he held him a bit tighter, if he pulled him a tad closer, he didn't care because it was all fine and it was no-one's business but theirs.

After a while Sherlock's curiosity won the upper hand though.

"So, you stayed with Greg…" he picked up where they'd left.

"Yep. Didn't know where else to go and he offered to let me stay. So I did." John shrugged which tugged at Sherlock's hand as well. It was excellent to feel like an extension of John. 

“That was nice of him.” Sherlock nodded. “But then he is what I assume people call nice.” 

“You assume correctly then.” John beamed up at him. He seemed so happy and so content that it not only tugged at Sherlock’s hand but also at something hidden deep within his chest. “He really was nice though. He became a good friend these last weeks.” He sighed and the easiness drained from him. “Yeah, it wasn’t easy. Don’t know what I would have done without him. He was a great support. Really a great friend actually.”

Something bitter settled next to the warm feeling of finally being completed. Something wormed its way into the cracks not yet completely fixed on his heart.

“Well, that’s good. I guess…” He should be happy for John. He should be grateful for Greg. He tried. But he couldn’t bring himself to say any more. It didn’t take long for John to catch up. 

“Hey,” he said, softly. “What’s up? Something wrong?” 

Sherlock only hummed, hadn’t yet found his voice back. He looked at the pavement slowly vanishing beneath his feet. Eventually he felt the tightness in his throat ease.

“No, I think it’s great that you have a place… someone... to go to when it all gets too much.” Sherlock said to his feet.

“Wait. What?” John stopped them again but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye. “If _what_ gets too much _when_?” 

“Me.” he said quietly.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered. 

Sherlock fidgeted, was restless just standing around, he needed to move, to distract himself, to evade the intensity of John's undivided attention. So he started walking again and pulled John along.

“John, we only just started… this,” he gestured between them. “And only because we started talking more openly doesn’t necessarily mean that automatically all will be well. Things might come up that can be hurtful, either for me or for you.” John moved closer little by little, silently walking at his side. He was listening seriously. Sherlock appreciated that more than he would have expected. 

[ **_Even if you see my scars,_ ** ](https://youtu.be/Gf5MMPLgDsI)

**_Even if I break your heart,_ **

"What if one of us needs some distance; just physical or... otherwise. If it takes longer to sort than just a walk in the park could achieve.” Sherlock swallowed. He didn’t want to imagine it, but it was likely to happen, better talk about it now than when it is too late.

**_If we're a million miles apart,_ **

**_Do you think you'd walk away?_ **

“I just mean, it’s good to know that you have somewhere to go.” He felt small and pathetic, pitying himself. 

“Yeah, maybe,” John said, forcefully. “But that’s not going to happen, okay?” He made it sound as if one could just decide it, just chose to make it easy. “That’s what we both need to learn. What we have to stop doing: running away. We’ll talk it out. We can do that yeah?”

**_Are you lost in all the noise?_ **

**_Even if I lose my voice,_ **

“What if you imagine things to be better than they actually are? Rose-coloured glasses and all?”

“Sherlock…” John huffed dismissively.

“No, I mean it... listen; just because I manage to talk to you _now_ doesn’t mean I’ll always be able to. There’ll be moments when I just can’t talk. When we’re having a row, when things happen I can’t process, when… Well, that… and even more if it’s only you I can’t talk to? Will you be able to tolerate it at that moment?”

**_Flirt with all the other boys,_ **

**_What would you say?_ **

“Sherlock,” John sounded apprehensive, worried. Great, it had already started. Sherlock’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. “What are you saying?” John interrogated.

John tried to make them stop again, but Sherlock didn’t let him. He needed to move, to head towards a destination. He’d get lost otherwise. He already was, London had rushed past him, he had already lost track. Looking around he didn’t recognise their location, which was ridiculous considering they had to be somewhere close to Buckingham Palace now. Past it already? Wasn’t there supposed to be a park? It was as if they weren’t even in London any more. Were they still on the right way to get home? John seemed to be sure though. He confidently headed towards somewhere and Sherlock had no choice than to follow. 

“Sherlock, slow down, will you?” John seemed slightly irritated now. “What are you _actually_ saying?”

**_Could you?_ **

**_Could you?_ **

**_Could you love me anyway?_ **

“I wonder how long you would be able to stand me. I’m asking how you can be sure that you won’t leave after all.”

“Because I don’t intend to!” John said, vehemently. With his unoccupied hand he reached between them and grabbed Sherlock’s forearm, which made him aware of their joined hands again, still tightly holding each other. It helped him focus, literally something to hold on to. John made him turn his head. “Sherlock, what do you think I was doing at Greg’s? What do you think he is to me?” he asked puzzled at seeing Sherlock’s face. Sherlock shrugged.

“A place to go to.” he said, evading the actual question.

“You don’t think there’s more than just friendship, right? That he’s an… dunno… alternative, or something? Or even a replacement for you?” It wasn’t easy to unravel the expression on John’s face. Amusement, irritation, worries, fondness, empathy. Why empathy? Sherlock just shrugged again. There was nothing he could say in his defense.

“Because he isn’t. He could never be, Sherlock!” John took hold of Sherlock’s shoulder in lieu of his forearm and made him turn slightly to be able to properly look at him. “Greg is a friend. A good friend, true. But nothing more. A mate. He offered me his sofa, I took over his place and he somehow endured it.” When his deliberately light tone didn’t have the desired effect he added, “and just for your information, I kipped on his sofa for nearly three fucking weeks.”

"Deduced as much." Sherlock said calmly and turned to look straight ahead again. Easier to walk. He would never acknowledge the relief he felt. 

"You did?" John's eyes widened and his steps slowed down. "So, you knew where I was after all?" 

“No, not precisely. From your video I was luckily able to rule out some places and concluded that you most likely stayed at a friend's… a _mate’s_ place.” He wasn’t able to hide his aversion to that term.

“Oh,” John sounded relieved. “and what sort of places could you, uhm, ‘luckily’ rule out?” he grinned knowingly. Of course he had to catch on Sherlock’s slip. Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up.

“Well, uhm,” he hesitated. “First of all I was glad to see that you hadn’t purchased a property of your own yet.” He stretched the silence so that John might lose interest; but no such luck.

“And…,” John prompted. 

“You didn’t stay in a hotel room either.” Sherlock offered. John laughed, aware of Sherlock’s evasion. He obviously seemed to enjoy this.

“Yeah, but that still doesn’t warrant a ‘luckily’...,” he insisted.

“If you must know,” Sherlock rolled his eyes for good measure, “I was able to deduce that you weren’t staying at a woman’s place—just friend or more than that—either, which was quite reassuring and…" he coughed, caught himself just in time. 

“Aaaand?” Of course this stubborn little man wouldn’t just let go of the topic.

“nogayloveinteresteither,” Sherlock mumbled. 

“What was that?” John chuckled.

“No gay love interest either.” Sherlock almost yelled. “Although, that might not even have mattered…”

“Why would it not?” John frowned. “What?” 

“I’m not actually gay.” Sherlock said quietly in a perfect John Watson imitating voice.

“ _Sherlock…_ ” John squeaked quite noisily and pulled their clasped hands up with force, waving them in front of Sherlock’s face like evidence.

“You’ve been very convincing.” Sherlock swallowed and ignored John’s efforts. "You have to admit, your change of heart was very sudden. How can I be sure that this is not just a convenient experiment due to a lack of other options?" He witnessed John’s face pale. Then John winced, lowered their hands but didn’t let go. _‘Thank God. Thank fucking God!’_

**_Is it for better or for worse,_ **

**_Or am I just your good-time girl?_ **

“Remember that I told you about the expectations and making my parents proud?” John said quietly, looking at his feet. “About blending in and not making a fuss?” John released a sharp breath and sniffed. He squared his shoulders, like bracing himself against a father that wasn’t any more. “It sat deep, I suppose. Deeper than I’m comfortable to admit at this point.” He cleared his throat, his voice had become a bit croaky. “You know, all my childhood, in my teens, my dad had kept rambling on about the ‘fucking gays’. Abominations, he had said. If I’d ever even spent one thought about becoming one of 'those fuckers'…” 

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock felt bile rise; who was he to fight the life long indoctrination of an overpowering father? He felt the ground pulled from under his feet when John spoke again. “He’d probably be proud of me now, considering I'm indeed not actually gay.” He even chuckled. Sherlock was close to vomiting. He had never considered John to be cruel. But… Then he caught John’s gaze. He smirked. The bastard smirked. “He never said anything about the fucking bis, did he now?” Sherlock tried to huff but it came out strangled. Was there such a thing as a laugh and sob in one? If not, Sherlock had just invented it.

**_Can you still hold me when it hurts,_ **

**_Or would you walk away?_ **

“It’s not only your father though,” Sherlock tried to reign in his elation. “That’s what the world is like out there. Outside of a safe community. We still are the ‘fucking abominations’.” He watched John from the corner of his eye. “Are you willing to face that? Able to withstand it? It’s not one man to fight, but millions…”

“Sherlock, listen… Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to find something to scare me away?” A deep crease formed on his forehead. “I won’t, okay? I won’t leave. I won’t run to Greg, crying. I won’t run from idiots calling me names.” He shook his head slowly; a man out of his depth. “What are you afraid of? What kind of man do you think I am, Sherlock? Why would you think I’d leave?” 

“You've had a lot of relationships, John. They never lasted. You always ended them.” He raised his eyes to look at the sky. It was still blue, just some feathery clouds sprinkled over it; the sun still high although on its way back to the horizon already. “You’ve loved other people before, why would this relationship be different? What if I do something that will make you end it?”

“Yes, true. There was love. But never like this.” He grabbed Sherlock’s chin and pulled it down to lock eyes with him. “I told you; it had been an escape. It had been an attempt to find some happiness. It never worked. But then they had never been _you_!” He tugged on Sherlock’s chin for emphasis.

**_Even if I scandalize you,_ **

**_Cut you down and criticize you,_ **

“And I told you," Sherlock countered, "that I only ever cared about myself, right? That wasn’t the whole truth. I thought I was independent, thought it didn’t matter. Isolated systems, remember?” He looked at John, felt sadness throwing a veil over his features. He saw it reflected on John’s face. “I ruined everything that was ever important to me. Because I felt safe. Never was apparently. And I only ever realised what I've lost when I missed it, when it was too late. I've lost what was dear to me over and over again. Each time I sank deeper, tried to isolate myself even more. I didn’t realise the vicious circle I was in.” John searched his eyes, Sherlock wasn’t sure what they were showing. “It almost ruined me, John.”

“Yes. And?” John said, stubbornly, raised his chin daringly.

“I will do it again. You know how I am; caught up in a case, bored, annoyed or whatever. I’ll insult you, I’ll ignore you, I’ll criticise you….”

**_Tell a million lies about you,_ **

**_What would you say?_ **

“And I’ll know how to handle it. Won’t I?” John nodded once. He looked ahead now, face determined. Sherlock watched him for a while from the corner of his eye; this wonder of an unwavering man. How could John ever doubt being steadfast and loyal? 

**_Could you?_ **

**_Could you?_ **

**_Could you?_ **

**_Could you love me anyway?_ **

Sherlock inhaled shakily.

“I never had a serious relationship before. Never cared for anyone this way.” He willed John to understand, hoped he had said enough.

**_Could you?_ **

**_Could you?_ **

**_Could you?_ **

**_Could you love me anyway?_ **

John looked lost though. Sherlock felt his insides churn. _‘Please, John. Please understand!’_

“And I told you, I never felt this way for anyone either.” John slowed his steps until they stopped. Sherlock realised that they had almost reached Baker Street. When had that happened? Now though, they stood still and John was looking down, away from him. He sounded anxious when he asked, “What’s the point of all this, Sherlock?” He looked up now, his eyes pleadingly searching Sherlock’s face for answers. 

**_Could you?_ **

They were standing around the corner of their destination. Sherlock could almost feel the pull towards the shelter behind the shiny black door of 221 Baker Street. But they weren’t there yet.

Almost.

He wanted to get there, to be there. somehow it seemed vital. So he resumed walking and John didn’t resist.

**_Could you? Could you still love me?_ **

**_Could you? Pick up the pieces of me?_ **

**_Could you? Could you still love me?_ **

**_Could you love me anyway?_ **

John didn’t insist, didn’t force him to speak. Apparently sensing that he needed to gather courage. When their destination came into sight, Sherlock knew he was running out of time. Once there, everything would be much more definite. It was foolish, it was a mere change in location by a couple of metres. And still it made a life-changing difference. 

“This is the most important thing in my life up to now.” He said, slowly, seriously, after a moment of mementally bracing himself. How much more plainly did he have to be?

“As it is for me.” John said just as seriously, not letting him from the hook. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, tried to breathe slowly and deeply. He was scared, he was frightened, he was absolutely terrified.

They stopped, stood. 

221 within reach, but a bit to the side, away from the afternoon’s bustle at Speedy’s. Still, the familiar noises, the smell of coffee mixed with sandwiches, the sight of the red awning next to the deep black of the door—it all helped to calm Sherlock’s edgy nerves. Slowly, the sensation of a warm hand palm against his own reemerged from the shady depths of his emotion-muddled mind. John, expectantly looking at him. A steady presence beside him, close, closer than normal. Still too far away. 

Apparently there was no way around it. He had to say it. John needed to hear it.

**_Could you? Could you still love me?_ **

**_Could you? Pick up the pieces of me?_ **

**_Could you? Could you still love me?_ **

**_Could you love me anyway?_ **

“If I lose this…" he whispered, "I won't survive it this time.”

**_Could you? Will you catch me when I fall?_ **

**_Could you? And we rise above it all_ **

**_Could you? Will you hold me when it hurts?_ **

**_Like it's the end of the world?_ **

**_Could you? Could you? Could you? Could you?_ **

A sincere and warm and affectionate smile spread on John’s face. Not exactly the reaction Sherlock had expected. 

“I’ll help you. Together we’ll find it back, alright?” 

It was too much, Sherlock had lost track, his mind unable to keep up. He felt the path underneath his feet become a bit wobbly. John was there, held him, steadied him with his gaze. Their fingers untangling, for the first time in it felt like ages. His hand felt incomplete like this, amputated. Immediately John’s hand was back though; both of his holding one of Sherlock’s.

“We've been through a lot together, Sherlock. More than any relationship could take actually.” John said, looking steadily into Sherlock’s eyes. “I'm still here. I've come back. You're still here. You've come back. Don't you think we'd make it through a bit more madness?” He watched Sherlock. He could almost physically feel John's gaze on his skin. “It's exactly what I love about you. I wouldn't have you any other way, Sherlock. I'm here for this. I'm here for you. You can't do anything to ruin this.” He searched Sherlock’s eyes for one last short moment. “What can I do to make you believe me?”

With that he let go of Sherlock’s hand and took a step back towards the front door of 221 Baker Street. 

“I’ll just go up there and you come when you’re ready, yeah?”

Sherlock marvelled once again at the man in front of him; John had understood without a single word from Sherlock. He knew Sherlock had to get his composure back, he knew that Sherlock had to steady himself as to not fall to pieces. He knew what it meant for Sherlock to take that step. Literally.

“Just… don’t you dare disappear on me, alright?” John added without any hint of annoyance, just his affectionate, slightly teasing and—now Sherlock recognised it for what it was—loving voice. 

“Promise?” John waited for confirmation.

“Promise.” Sherlock said, and felt it buzz and resonate between them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs for the chapter can be found here:
> 
> ["You Saved Me" by Skunk Anansie](https://youtu.be/LM9L7QrQVZ0)
> 
> ["Love Me Anyway" by Pink & Chris Stapleton](https://youtu.be/Gf5MMPLgDsI)
> 
> [chapter 19 "playlist"](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLLyXzbDSBo_iW1bIl-s7DE6DeikFbl022)
> 
> ["Shatter Me" playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwHcqe4ciz0&list=PLLyXzbDSBo_hlI3eIe9OqdLP_WoH-C_Zh)  
> 


	20. All the Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only now he realised that his arms were still awkwardly bouncing against his hips; he hadn't really known what to do with them. What was allowed? What was expected? Now though he couldn't withstand the temptation. Haltingly his shaky hands found their destination on John's waist; holding him cautiously at first, gaining confidence when he felt the warmth radiating from John's body and saw the heat in John's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> Finally. That's all. That's the note.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> me xxx  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> *** link to songs within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

Trudging up the steps to 221B John pondered the one question which had bounced in his head like a pinball ever since he had come to Baker Street today. 

_‘What can I do to make you believe me?’_

What was he still missing? He didn’t doubt Sherlock’s feelings and intentions any more. It was obvious that he felt the same as John; even though he hadn’t said it in plain words. Yet. He didn’t need to though. John didn’t need to hear those three words to know it was true. They were over-used anyway. For Sherlock on the contrary they had needed to be said. Sherlock had needed to hear them—plain as day—to understand them and to believe it. John was sure he did; however, apparently they still hadn't really sunk in. Why was Sherlock still so insecure about them, about what lay ahead of them, about what John knew they could become?

After Sherlock’s dance, after he had laid his heart bare, John had been sure that it had been Sherlock’s feeling of guilt and the need for atonement that had to be soothed. _‘Did I save you because I know you saved me too’..._ It had definitely been a big part of what had caused Sherlock’s restraint. However, it appeared there was more that held him back to fully trust and give in to the new them. 

He entered the flat and threw Sherlock’s dressing gown which he had picked up from the stairs on top of his jacket which was still dumped on the sofa. Automatically, his feet carried him into the kitchen to the spot they'd last been in before they had left; as if it would help him to understand. The gruesome thought that he had done the same with the pavement outside Barts suddenly occurred unasked and he forcefully shook his head to get rid of the disturbing memories. Why did they keep invading his thoughts, even now, when he was the happiest he had ever been in his life? 

_'... because what you feel now is the exact opposite of what you've felt then; kneeling on that pavement. You would never have believed you'd ever get the chance to have a moment like this. You'd never have believed to get the chance to be happy again'_ , his mind helpfully provided. John swallowed, letting himself slide down against the kitchen cupboard's front until he was crouching the way he had done not that long ago. _'Well, thanks for that then…'_

Recalling the feeling of holding Sherlock in his arms the way he had earlier this day brought back the whole dizzying rollercoaster of emotions they had lived through in that short span of time. Years and years of twisted emotions; condensed, boiled down into thick molasses, weighing them down and soiling their souls; spilled, erupted in one sobering outburst. Boiling down the dirt that had accumulated along their way, leaving behind a solid and sustaining ground for their relationship to grow on. 

He let his eyes wander over what he was able to see from this angle, taking in the unique atmosphere of the flat; the only place that had ever felt like home.

His roaming gaze came to a halt when he spotted his phone, still lying on the floor where it had landed after having been wiped from the kitchen table. He looked at it in wonder as if it had just magically appeared from a parallel universe. It was a bit true though. That moment felt like ages ago. The picture of Sherlock, distraught, lost for words, miserable. Like from a different life. And it kind of was. That was 'then', this was now.

John marveled at the realisation of the difference between the Sherlock 'then' and the Sherlock currently lurking outside of 221 Baker Street. The progress they had made. Both of them. No, John corrected himself, the Sherlock downstairs wasn't a different man; it was the same man, the same stir crazy genius he had always loved along the way. That open, vulnerable side in need of affection and love had always been there; safely bottled up and locked away behind thick walls of self-protection, only showing its face every now and then in Sherlock's most vulnerable moments.

How they had managed to break through those walls now, John wasn't quite sure. It felt so sudden, although it had actually been a long time coming, John guessed. Piling up until they finally caved in. And it was _a lot_ that emerged from the mass of ballast falling off their shoulders. They had talked, finally talked, in depth like they never had before. How, John wondered, how was he still not able to make sense of everything he and Sherlock had said. 

Clambering up from his crouch on the floor, he tried to recall details of what they'd told each other, especially of the things Sherlock had shared with him. He bent down to pick up his phone, images of Sherlock flashing through his mind. Sherlock with his violin swaying in front of the window; the vulnerable look in his eyes when John had reached out to touch him; Sherlock furious and yelling in his helplessness; sobbing into John's shirt when he had held him in his arms; Sherlock quiet and thoughtful in the cab: Sherlock passionate and powerful in his dance; Sherlock pained and embarrassed by memories of his past; Sherlock concerned and supportive while he listened to John's confessions; Sherlock agitated and anxious at the prospect of returning to Baker Street; Sherlock currently gaining his confidence to open that door and come home to John. This contradictory man, this wonderful mysterious man; so many layers to unravel, so deep and winded a soul and mind to explore… John suspected he'd never be able to fully understand him. But he'd never stop trying.

[ **_What would I do without your_ ** ](https://youtu.be/450p7goxZqg) **_smart mouth?_ **

**_Drawing me in, and you kicking me out_ **

**_You've got my head spinning, no kidding, I can't pin you down  
_ **

Without making the conscious decision John set the kettle and busied his hands with making tea. The internalised ritual gave his mind the opportunity to sort through the plethora of impressions and information he had received the last couple of hours. 

**_What's going on in that beautiful mind?_ **

**_I'm on your magical mystery ride_ **

**_And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me, but I'll be alright  
_ **

Sherlock’s voice resonated in his skull like the whispered voices in a church. He felt pulled into a multiverse of madness. No end and no beginning, everything counts and nothing matters.

**_My head's under water_ **

**_But I'm breathing fine_ **

**_You're crazy and I'm out of my mind  
_ **

_‘how can I be sure… convenient experiment… you’ve had a lot of relationships… I never cared for anyone this much… just your good time girl… there are no words… you were very convincing… if I lose this… the most important thing…’_

**_'Cause all of me_ **

**_Loves all of you_ **

**_Love your curves and all your edges_ **

**_All your perfect imperfections  
_ **

Hadn’t John tried to defuse all those concerns hard enough? Hadn’t he been clear enough about his own intentions? Apparently he hadn’t been convincing. John wouldn’t stop trying. He’d do everything for this man. What was it Sherlock needed from him though. He couldn’t give him more than everything he was.

**_Give your all to me_ **

**_I'll give my all to you_ **

**_You're my end and my beginning_ **

**_Even when I lose I'm winning_ **

**_'Cause I give you all of me_ **

**_And you give me all of you, oh-oh  
_ **

Did Sherlock still not know that John was all his? And that he'd do everything for Sherlock? Why did Sherlock still hesitate to go all-in? Did this still feel like a game to him? Was he still afraid to lose?

**_How many times do I have to tell you?_ **

**_Even when you're crying, you're beautiful too_ **

**_The world is beating you down, I'm around through every mood  
_ **

He had told Sherlock that he loved him; that he'd give everything, do everything to make a relationship between them work; that he knew and accepted Sherlock's flaws, that he wasn't himself without Sherlock; that Sherlock couldn't do anything to ruin it; that John would stay at his side no matter what crossed their path. 

**_You're my downfall, you're my muse_ **

**_My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues_ **

**_I can't stop singing, it's ringing, in my head for you  
_ **

And yes, Sherlock had needed to hear all that, too. However, it had only scratched the surface. Sherlock seemed to accept or even have never doubted John's loyalty, John's support, probably not even John's feelings towards him. The real problem seemed to lie much deeper.

**_My head's under water_ **

**_But I'm breathing fine_ **

**_You're crazy and I'm out of my mind  
_ **

_‘how can I be sure… convenient experiment… you’ve had a lot of relationships… I never cared for anyone this much… just your good time girl… there are no words… you were very convincing… if I lose this… the most important thing…’_

**_'Cause all of me_ **

**_Loves all of you_ **

**_Love your curves and all your edges_ **

**_All your perfect imperfections  
_ **

John still wondered; hadn't he said as much? Yes, he had told him all that. Why wasn't it enough? 

**_Give your all to me_ **

**_I'll give my all to you_ **

**_You're my end and my beginning_ **

**_Even when I lose I'm winning_ **

**_'Cause I give you all of me_ **

**_And you give me all of you, oh-oh  
_ **

What else needed Sherlock to hear, beyond that John would do everything to make sure that Sherlock wouldn't regret to have taken this step? That John wouldn't leave. That he'd never hurt Sherlock again. What else could John tell him.

**_Give me all of you, oh_ **

**_Cards on the table, with all showing hearts_ **

**_Risking it all, though it's hard  
_ **

Suddenly it hit him. 

_'Just tell me I am yours 'cause you are mine'  
_

That line, that one line from Sherlock's soul song, suddenly made sense. It held all the answers John needed. 

**_'Cause all of me_ **

**_Loves all of you_ **

**_Love your curves and all your edges_ **

**_All your perfect imperfections  
_ **

_'Just tell me I am yours 'cause you are mine… never cared for anyone this much… there are no words… the most important thing…’_

**_Give your all to me_ **

**_I'll give my all to you_ **

**_You're my end and my beginning_ **

**_Even when I lose I'm winning  
_ **

Sherlock's question deep within that still needed to be answered was: 'You're mine. Am I yours?'

And what was John to Sherlock that Sherlock still doubted to be for John?

_'you’ve had a lot of relationships… I never cared for anyone this much… if I lose this… the most important thing...'  
_

**_'Cause I give you all of me_ **

**_And you give me all of you_ **

**_I give you all of me_ **

**_And you give me all of you, oh-oh  
_ **

John looked up from the two cups of tea he had set. 

Suddenly it was all so clear. He had tried so hard and in the end it was this one simple thing which was utterly obvious to John, that Sherlock still doubted, that he craved to hear. How could John have been so blind all the time. Only recently even, he had detected the actual main problem but he hadn't drawn the connection. Too obvious. He had seen, but not observed.

Sherlock couldn't accept praise beyond compliments; and that was not because he was particularly humble, he never had been. Perhaps it was because he didn't find his own distinctiveness praiseworthy, or even noteworthy. More likely though, because he didn't agree; because he thought less of himself than people thought he did. 

Sherlock still didn't dare to believe in a lasting relationship between them, because he not merely deemed it improbable but even impossible.

Sherlock had to know by now how important he was to John. And yet, he still wasn't aware of his own exceptional worth and extraordinary value in John's life. He somehow still believed he was one of many, like 'all the others'. He still hadn't understood that he was unparalleled, irreplaceable, unique.

That needed to be changed. However, simple talking didn't seem to have the desired effect. It didn't take long for John to come up with a plan of how to get the message across. There were only so many ways to Sherlock Holmes' heart.

He leaned against the kitchen counter and waited. Just waited. He had waited for this moment for so long, a few more minutes didn't matter. Sherlock had to be ready. He would come up when he was; John was certain. Still, when he heard the front door open and slow hesitant steps approaching the stairs he couldn't suppress a small relieved sigh. This gesture of Sherlock deciding to join John, was one of the most important ones of their entire journey. And now here they were, ready to take the leap.

Slowly, Sherlock made his way up the stairs. John could literally sense Sherlock's nerves strained to the limit, each of his steps telling a whole story of fear and bravery, of hurt and hope, of loss and love. His heart swelled with pride of Sherlock to have cut through his doubts and fears and opt to face their future. 

However, there was still obvious hesitation caused by self-doubt and insecurities; John was determined to slay that dragon as well. 

Smiling to himself he waited for Sherlock to enter the kitchen. From the moment he had realised what was missing, he knew that this was how it had to go. He spotted a glimpse of Sherlock lingering on the landing, taking a deep breath before reaching for the handle of the kitchen door. 

Sherlock pushed the door open and [ John started the music ](https://youtu.be/AfKeqzkU8TU) . Smiling, looking at Sherlock from under his lashes, John pushed himself from the steady surface at his back. He wasn't sure what Sherlock had expected, but apparently not this. Judging by the expression on his face, Sherlock still had the jitters. John wanted his own confidence to make up for it, to be enough for both of them. He didn't feel one speck of doubt anymore and hoped that it was reflected in his whole demeanour, he wanted it to give off on Sherlock. He wanted his determination to permeate the air in the room so Sherlock could breath it in, flush it through his veins, spread it through his entire body, own it.

With Sherlock standing in the door opening and John standing at the kitchen counter, the table was between them and blocking his way. Or it could work in his advantage as it gave Sherlock more time and him a bigger stage. 

So he made use of the first moments of melody floating through the room, put on his best Fred Astaire imitation and, slowly sauntering, made his way around the table. If his hips were swaying more than necessary and the seduction-level in his gaze was Cary Grant worthy he knew he was laying it on thick, but the stunned and puzzled and a bit lost look in Sherlock's eyes was absolutely worth it. 

And more so, any less of a show would have made it less believable; as contradictory as that sounded. Sherlock had to see the ease, to understand the serenity with which John was conveying the message. It wouldn't serve the purpose if he'd try another serious attempt to explain, to convince, to permeate the intricate windings of that silly old brain. They'd never get rid of the graveness that lay heavy on this fragile beginning like a thick layer of snow over the first frail sprouts at the end of winter. That wasn't like them. They'd never been icy; that was more the speciality of other parts of the Holmes' family. They were more like the chaotic weather in April; back and forth between sunshine and rain and hail and storm and warmth. As unpredictable as it was, as nurturing it was also. 

Halfway circling the table the lyrics started and he hummed along, matching his slightly bouncing steps to the rhythm, trailing his finger delicately over the backrest of the kitchen chair. 

  


**_Um hmm_ **

**_Some say you're crazy_ **

**_Say that you're no good_ **

**_Say your family's cursed with bad blood_ **

  


A frown formed on Sherlock's forehead and John detected a fleeting flare of hurt or betrayal in his eyes while he observed John cautiously and calculating like prey would watch the predator.

This was a calculated reaction though and John already enjoyed the anticipation of the giddy feeling when the message would sink in. 

Now he mouthed along, approaching Sherlock slowly, still keeping a safe distance that he admittedly was only barely able to maintain.

  


**_But I think you're cute and misunderstood_ **

**_And I wouldn't change you if I could_ **

  


John's heart almost burst of joy when the expression on Sherlock's face changed, softened, relief took the place of suspicion. The crease on the top of his nose stayed though, which he now crinkled and said, "Cute, John?" 

John barked out a laugh; release of all the remaining tension. Then, he teasingly raised an eyebrow and went back to his borrowed demeanour of Hollywood golden era heartthrob. 

  


**_Let' em talk you down_ **

**_Call you names_ **

**_My mind's made up_ **

**_It ain't gonna change_ **

  


Theatrically he placed a hand on his heart, threw his head back, then spread his arms wide, before he took cautious steps in Sherlock's direction, closing the distance. He pointed his finger in the worst possible acting manner at Sherlock to vocally sing along those last lines.

  


**_I'm sure in my heart_ **

**_Happy and free_ **

**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one for me_ **

  


Sherlock stemmed his hands on his hips, lowered his head and John could detect the suppressed chuckle in the shaking of Sherlock's shoulders alone.

He smirked and knew he had won. He had melted the ice. And oh, wasn't that the most uplifting feeling he had ever experienced?

When Sherlock looked up with gleaming eyes framed by the most adorable laugh lines the only thing John was able to do was to respond with a smile as broad as Sherlock's.

"You're ridiculous, John." Sherlock said, his voice dark from held back laughter.

"I am, am I not?" John answered through lips pulled as tight as possible into a grin which squeezed his cheeks to the point of hurting. 

The fizzy happiness bubbling through his system only sparked his performance. 

  


**_Some say you're bitter_ **

**_Think you're mean_ **

**_Uncouth untamed and unrestrained_ **

  


An imaginary microphone held in front of his mouth, he slinked and wiggled his way until he stood immediately in front of Sherlock, although still a foot's length apart. 

Ludicrously feeling like Marilyn Monroe or Betty Boop, John trailed one pointed finger over Sherlock's jaw, tracing the cutting line from earlobe to chin in a comically over the top seductive gesture; hoping that it'd have the same screwy effect as the rest of his absurd efforts. 

  


**_But I think you're sensitive and sweet_ **

**_Stay as you are_ **

**_Don't change a thing_ **

  


Sherlock's eyes grew wide and John heard his breath hitch, but the rest of him was frozen in place. The bobbing of his Adam's apple, the only movement John could detect when he slowly circled him, the tracing finger moving from chin down the neck over a collarbone to the shoulder before brushing over the upper back, the neck. He could see the small hairs rising at the touch and a shiver rolling down the spine before he moved on, the same way backwards circling Sherlock's other side. 

  


**_Let' em talk you down_ **

**_Call you names_ **

**_My mind's made up_ **

**_It ain't gonna change_ **

**_I'm sure in my heart_ **

**_Happy and free_ **

  


Arriving in front of Sherlock again he looked up into eyes like black holes, a gravity holding him in place, sucking in everything he was. 

  


**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one_ **

  


Calmly now, sincerely, dropping his act for a tiny moment, he held this mesmerizing gaze and whispered the last line unmistakably straight to Sherlock's face.

  


**_You're the one for me_ **

  


********

  


For a moment there he had thought John would kiss him. Suddenly, he had turned serious in the midst of his laughable and therefore refreshing act. A genius move to alleviate the tension and lighten the mood. His John was smarter than he looked after all. 

At first he had been unsettled; why would John point out all his flaws _now_ that Sherlock had finally decided to trust John's words that he wouldn't be appalled by who he was. He really didn't need a reminder. But as soon as he had seen the mischievous twinkle in John's eyes he had known John was back to being John H. Watson, Captain Tease, Dr. Banter. 

That's why the silently and sincerely offered one line had even more impact. Could he really mean it? Did he honestly mean what he was saying? _'Please let him mean it!'_

However, before Sherlock was given any chance to react to it, John had rested both his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, put on a mirthful smirk and started to sway in sync to the music again. He swung his hips, tapped his feet in the worst possible impression of college times slow dance. Sherlock had always found them tedious and uncomfortable; in much too close proximity to too many idiots. He had tried to avoid those at all costs; somehow _now_ he didn't mind one bit. On the contrary, the humming anticipation simmering underneath his skin made it more than welcome. 

Without his doing he got pulled along and felt himself move together with John. The way a happy gleam evolved on John's features was worth all the awkwardness he might still feel. Apparently completely relaxed now John silently accompanied the slightly rough voice of the singer with his own untrained but all the more passionate one.

  


**_Some say you're bawdy_ **

**_Wicked and wild_ **

**_A restless useless juvenile_ **

  


Somehow Sherlock gained the impression that John didn't mind this particular set of "flaws" in the slightest. He remembered all the occasions John had thrown him an amused glance after he had once again rushed through a crime scene, insulted Anderson, delighted about the next mystery to be solved. 

He held John's gaze and found confirmation in the amusement crinkling the lines around his eyes and the next lines he sang enthusiastically and thus seemed to mean wholeheartedly.

  


**_But I think you're funny and I like your smile_ **

**_Want to be with you_ **

**_Want you to stay a while_ **

  


"Preferably forever if you're amenable." John leaned over to speak into his ear and Sherlock felt the distant hum turn into a buzz that sizzled over his skin like the gaslike flames of his Bunsen burner. 

  


**_Let' em talk you down_ **

**_Call you names_ **

**_My mind's made up_ **

**_It ain't gonna change_ **

  


John had moved them away from the door opening so that they were now slowly spinning through the kitchen; at least through those parts where there was enough space to do so without toppling over any of their clutter or Sherlock's experiments. Suddenly, all this held a peculiar kind of beauty he had never been aware of before; as if he had never seen it from this angle or in this light; as if a veil was lifted from his eyes. 

  


**_I'm sure in my heart_ **

**_Happy and free_ **

  


As if to underline it John tugged on his shoulders in time with the words he was still quietly singing as if he couldn't make himself stop. It made his forearms slide over Sherlock's shoulders, his hands dangling behind his neck; John's fingers unintentionally tickling the hairs on Sherlock's nape. At least he thought it was unintentional, one never knew with one John Watson.

  


**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one for me_ **

  


It had brought them even closer and the resulting brush of clothes against clothes filled Sherlock with a different kind of tension. The awareness of the merely thin layers of fabric separating warm skin from his heated one, made him want to touch. 

Only now he realised that his arms were still awkwardly bouncing against his hips; he hadn't really known what to do with them. What was allowed? What was expected? Now though he couldn't withstand the temptation. Haltingly his shaky hands found their destination on John's waist; holding him cautiously at first, gaining confidence when he felt the warmth radiating from John's body and saw the heat in John's eyes.

  


**_A no count mixed up_ **

**_Amount to nothing_ **

  


The change in tone of the lyrics made him tilt his head, frown in an unspoken question.

  


**_A day away from a bum on the street_ **

  


"Donovan? Anderson? For example..." John shrugged and it was plain as day what he thought of similar comments in real life.

  


**_Some low class kind of royalty_ **

  


Sherlock's frown deepened and John laughed again his beautiful spontaneous and sincere laugh where he threw his head back, pinched his eyes. Sherlock drank in the sight, felt it settle deep within a brand new wing of his mind palace; he would never get enough of it.

"You're the brother of the Queen after all," John said, his lips curling into a wicked grin. 

  


**_That's what they say about you_ **

**_When they're talking to me_ **

  


The rumbling laughter bubbling up in his throat got stuck when John let his hands slide down Sherlock's arms until he reached the hands steadily settled on his hips. 

  


**_Some say you're bad_ **

**_A bad bad seed_ **

  


While watching Sherlock with piercing eyes, John took hold of Sherlock's hands, eased them from his hips and guided them around himself, leaving them resting low on the small of his back. 

  


**_You love to play with fire you love gambling_ **

  


Sort of caging Sherlock's arms in, John put his own arms in a similar position around Sherlock and inevitably brought their bodies flush against each other. 

One corner of his mouth pulled up into an impish smirk, John murmured the next lines; his voice gone low and a bit rough and like a Pavlovian reaction Sherlock's heartbeat sped up a notch.

  


**_But I know what you love and I know what you need_ **

  


Sherlock felt the rough material of John's denim scratch against his hand palms with each still sway-y movement of John's hips. All his senses on high alert, he was aware of every shift of his clothes where they were rubbing against John's; the sensation transferred to his skin like a blueprint; causing all his synapses to fire information to his brain he was barely able to process. The bump of John's belt made his hand curl slightly and his fingers dig into soft tissue just above John's back pockets. He swallowed. 

Of course John noticed and used it to his advantage, bringing the next line even more pronounced and sultry.

  


**_And I like it when you play with me_ **

  


Of course he did; Sherlock saw the exact moment the realisation that his efforts didn't fall on deaf ears so to speak encouraged John and sparked even more daring moves. So it didn't come as a surprise but was nonetheless electrifying when one of John's hands travelled lower and cupped one of his arse cheeks. The light pressure it caused pressed their groins together, their legs moved between each other's; the now undeniable friction almost made Sherlock gasp. He felt heat rise to his face, settle on his throat, his lips, high on his cheeks. 

  


**_Let' em talk you down_ **

**_Call you names_ **

  


John didn't seem unaffected either, apparent in his quicker breaths and the way he licked his lips. His eyes flicked between Sherlock's eyes and mouth and it didn't need a genius to know what he was thinking about. Sherlock wondered why he wasn't going for it and just took what he wanted.

  


**_My mind's made up_ **

**_It ain't gonna change_ **

  


The never-changing cheeriness of the song now stood in contrast to their slowing movements, to time slowing down, to the anticipation and possibilities and probabilities and desire-heavy laden atmosphere.

  


**_I'm sure in my heart_ **

**_Happy and free_ **

  


The other one of John's hands slid upwards, splaying between Sherlock's shoulder blades. Sherlock could feel the fingertips digging into his muscles, automatically pushing him against John's chest; until their hearts were lined up to engage in an endless give and take of rapid beats.

  


**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one for me_ **

  


John had, unnoticed by Sherlock, moved them into the corridor leading to Sherlock's bedroom. But the moment Sherlock thought his heart would jump out of his chest as hard as it was suddenly beating, John gave him a calming and reassuring smile and slowed them down until they were standing still, John leaning against the wall with his back, just watching each other. 

John looked up at him, intensely observing him, scanning his face. He loosened his hold on Sherlock and Sherlock immediately craved his touch to be back. 

An almost numbness caused by over-sensitivity spread on Sherlock's face when John tenderly took it in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones; the same kind of numbness that made it impossible to distinguish between icy and steamy hot water until one scolded oneself. That was probably exactly what was happening right now, not only to his face, thought Sherlock; but right now he would happily accept any damage it would cause.

  


**_I'm sure in my heart_ **

**_Happy and free_ **

**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one_ **

**_You're the one for me  
_ **

  


The sudden silence surrounding them wasn't quiet in the slightest; interrupted by shallow breaths, by Sherlock's racing mind that wasn't able to form one useful thought, by two hearts beating in sync.

Running his fingertips through Sherlock's curls, which felt electrified like light wire and were sending crackling tension over his scalp and down his spine, John swallowed, obviously preparing to speak. The expression on his face could have been used as the illustration next to the word affection in a dictionary. Sherlock waited, stayed quiet. His senses clear enough to know that there was something to be said that was important to John. After a while John cleared his throat and seemed to have found back his voice.

"Sherlock, I'm sure. I've never been more sure about anything in my life. I'm sure of this. I'm sure of you!" He spoke softly which didn't lessen any of the intensity of his words. "I don't love you despite but _because_ of who you are, you massive idiot genius detective! I don't care what others say. I'm finally free, made my very own choice. And it's the best fucking thing I've ever done!" He smiled and it was genuine happiness sparkling in his eyes. 

Sherlock wasn't able to look away; this was everything he had hoped for, thought about uncountable times and still it felt unimaginable now it was becoming true. His mind felt a bit dreamlike and vague. He couldn't have that; he had to be clear headed, be present in this moment, experience every second like through a looking glass to store it all away for eternity. He swallowed, took a deep breath to get rid of all the fog caused by chaotically entangled emotions.

"You!" John spoke again, cupping Sherlock's face with both hands; holding him; steadying him. "I choose you, Sherlock. You're the One. You are my One! And I've never been happier."

The breath he had just taken came rushing out like after a gut punch; only in this case, Sherlock was convinced it happened because the elation and ecstasy blooming in his chest left no room for something as boring as breathing. 

"John," he said under his breath and it sounded much more like a question. _'Do you mean it? Is this really true? Because if it isn't…'_

"Yes?" John asked back, quietly. And it held all the answers Sherlock had been looking for. _'It's true. I mean it. You can trust me. Do you trust me?'_ And Sherlock thought, _'Of course I trust you! I always have!'_

When John then smiled at him as if saying, _'So, then, what's holding you back?',_ Sherlock had to steady himself on the wall. He pulled his left hand free, he now realised was still trapped between the wall and John's arse, and all but collapsed against the wall; catching himself just in time, bumping his hand on eye-level on the wall next to John's head.

Their faces were close, he was cornering John against the wall. He looked down at John's open and trusting face and only now realised what his amazing, fantastic, extraordinary John had been doing; by positioning himself against the wall he had given Sherlock all the control over the situation. Now Sherlock knew why John hadn't taken advantage of their earlier heated moments. John wanted to give Sherlock the chance to make that decision, to take the last step. 

This small gesture was such a big gift that it almost choked Sherlock with its gravity. He felt his heart fill with love to the brim, spilling over when he reached up with his right hand to mirror John's touch of his face.

"John?" he asked, telling him _'I want this. I'm ready. I'm sure.'  
_

"Yes," John answered in a whisper, holding all the wonder Sherlock himself was experiencing. _'Is this really happening?'_

Leaning closer, dipping his head, Sherlock told him, _'Yes. It is. This is it. This is us.'  
_

His hand cradling John's face was shaking, his ragged breaths mingled with John's. His entire body was humming in rhythm with the waves of blood being pumped through his veins. One last time he searched John's eyes, seeking confirmation that _'Yes, yes, yes!'_ he wanted it just as much, before he closed the last centimetres keeping them apart. 

[ **_Chills_ ** ](https://youtu.be/DSCBIKBmwbA)   


He watched how John's eyelids dropped shut, a traitorous moist shimmer covering his whimpers, the second before his own eyes closed of their own volition. 

**_Chills come racing down my spine_ **

**_Like a storm on my skin  
_ **

Everything he felt was amplified by his starved senses, magnified by his mesmerised mind. The small puffs of air leaving John's parted lips first sped up then stopped altogether when their noses were the first thing to touch. They raised their chins the same moment. As in slow motion, the closer they came, Sherlock could sense the warmth radiating from John's mouth increase before he finally felt it against his own skin. 

**_With shaking hands_ **

**_I'll guide your sweet soul into mine  
_ **

Whatever he had imagined the first touch of their lips would be like, it wasn't this. There was no jolt of lightning, there was no heart-attack or nervous breakdown. All there was, and that was better than anything in the world, was a root deep feeling of rightness. 

**_Until I feel you within  
_ **

Nothing in his life had ever felt this right, like the way it felt to kiss John Watson. The first gentle press of John's normally unrestrained mouth, silenced by Sherlock's kiss, felt like a warm welcome; a 'there you are'; a 'finally'. It felt like coming home. 

**_And I know, I know_ **

**_That it's all about understanding  
_ **

He wasn't sure who had let out the sigh, probably he himself, maybe both of them, but it was the expression of everything that clicked into place right this moment. His hand had found its way into John's hair, his fingers sliding through somewhat longer than usual strands. One of John's hands was cradling the back of Sherlock's head, the other loosely holding his nape.

**_Am I hidden inside your beautiful soul_ **

**_As it's crying for love_ **

**_To conquer the day slowly dawning  
_ **

He pressed their lips firmer together, and felt John do the same, to chase that feeling of belonging as if it was likely to slip away. He wanted to imprint it on his lips and on his soul, to never lose it again. Now he had found his one place on earth to be, he wanted to claim it and to be claimed, branded onto his heart.

Each sucking in a breath, they broke apart, staying close, holding each other tight but unrestricting. 

"Hi," John said, beaming up at him.

"Hi," Sherlock answered, smiling softly down at John; his own voice low and softened by an heretofore unimaginable amount of love he felt.

They locked eyes and the smile on John's face was the most open and hopeful Sherlock had seen since _'Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Good.'  
_

And Sherlock knew there was also something important _he_ had to say.

**_I want you to know you're the heart of my Temple of Thought  
_ **

"John," he said, slowly running his fingers through John's hair, "I need to set something straight I should have done a long time ago." He swallowed, his voice getting a bit raspy.

John nodded, looked at him with the same open and faithful gaze.

"That first night," he knew he didn't have to elaborate, John would know, "I really _was_ flattered by your interest. And would I have been honest with myself, I was much more than just flattered." He looked somewhat apologetic at John; waited for a reaction. John only dropped his gaze for a short moment, shook his head slightly and smiled knowingly. When he looked back up there was nothing but fondness in his eyes. He stayed silent so Sherlock carried on.

"I didn't lie though, I _did_ consider myself married to my work, devoted to my mind alone. But back then I didn't have the full set of data." He shrugged and John's eyes twinkled.

"I wasn't aware of the fact that my mind palace was incomplete. You know the saying of how a house becomes a home?" he watched as John nodded slowly, expectantly observing him.

"That way my mind palace could never have been a home to my mind. I ignored the fact that even a genius brain can't survive without a heart to nurture it." 

The lump forming in his throat and the churning stomach contradicted the calm settling deep within his bones. 

John's eyes flicking between his shone with such warm and deep affection that he knew John had understood; John knew what he had tried to say.

"Thank you," John then whispered; and still holding Sherlock's gaze, exchanging unspoken confessions, he guided their mouths back together.

This time, knowing he had said what had needed to be said, he could allow all the happiness to bubble up and to infuse the way he met John's kiss; much firmer, less chaste. A tight press of dry lips moving against each other, slowly more and more sliding, moistened by nipping teeth, sucking lips, the tips of tongues darting out, tracing lines.

Each time they broke their contact for a second, Sherlock would murmur against John's mouth. 

"John, I will do everything for you."

"I know," John would answer before sealing their lips again.

**_So when you're restless,_ **

**_I will calm the ocean for you  
_ **

"I'll do all I can to keep you safe."

"I know."

**_In your sorrow, I will dry your tears  
_ **

"I'll make you happy, John. I promise."

"I know."

**_When you need me, I will be the love beside you  
_ **

"I'll try to help you as best I can."

"I know."

**_I'll take away all your fears,_ **

"I'll prove to you that you can trust me."

"I know."

**_I'll take away all of your fears  
_ **

"I swear, I'll always be there for you. Always."

"I know, Sherlock, I know!" John held his face in his hands, keeping him from seeking shelter in the next kiss, studied him seriously. "You don't need to be anything other or more than you are," he said, roaming Sherlock's face with eyes as loving as they were sentimental. Sherlock tried to swallow away the lump in his throat the burden of their past still evoked; but as hard as he tried it got stuck somewhere behind his breastbone and settled heavily on his heart. 

"Just… don't leave me," John said, his voice almost breaking, "don't leave me behind ever again!" 

"Never!" came Sherlock's answer, faster than he was aware was humanly possible to speak. 

**_So you can let go all your fears  
_ **

His breath got a bit raged in his desperation to assure John, to make him believe him. 

"Never, John! I promise, I'll never leave you again! I wouldn't… I couldn't… I… You… " 

He felt how agitated he became; the nails of his left hand scratching the wallpaper; the other hand resting on John's scared shoulder, his eyes wide.

"Shhhh…" John soothed him, caressing his face, dotting his face with tiny pecks like he had done earlier this day for the same reason—it felt like a lifetime ago.

"Shhhh…" he said again and Sherlock's inner turmoil calmed down, quieted, until he was able to relax into John's loving hands again. Would this ever stop? The anxiety? The dread? The guilt? Even in moments as happy as this?

**_And you stay  
_ **

"I'm here," John said quietly in between his small kisses.

**_Stay with me when I break down  
_ **

"I won't go anywhere either." 

**_Like a dream comes saving  
_ **

Calming fingers sliding through his curls, deep-sea-eyes reassuring him with their steady gaze.

**_And if words should fail here  
_ **

"I'm here. You're here. We're together."

His breath was slowing down, he was able to swallow, the pressure on his heart eased. He nodded, telling John without words that he had heard, that he had understood. That he knew.

**_I'll just read the way you sound  
_ **

"That's what counts. Together we can do it." John sealed their pact. Together. Against the rest of the world. They'd had that once; but lost it. Now, they were given a new chance and he would do everything not to lose it again.

"Together," he said and pulled John's face towards him with both hands, almost painfully crashing their mouths together.

**_Till I know the meaning of love  
_ **

John groaned. Sherlock wasn't sure if from pleasure or pain until the grip on his curls tightened delightfully and one of John's arms circled his waist to pull him closer.

**_And life  
_ **

Taking full control now, John shifted slightly to align their bodies and changed the angle to deepen the kiss. 

He dipped the tip of his tongue between Sherlock's parted lips, seeking for permission. Reflexively, Sherlock's tongue surged forward, making contact, sliding against John's without restraint. John groaned again, forcing a low rumble from Sherlock's throat in response.

**_And it could be I'm understating  
_ **

John pushed his tongue forwards, invading Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock did in return, exploring each other in a way they never had before. 

**_What it means  
_ **

Surrounded and filled by John's heat, Sherlock lost all sense of time. Fully captured by John's skillful kisses he was only able to bath in the sensation of his curls being tugged, his lower lip being held between teeth while a hot tongue left tingling traces along its swollen and sensitive flesh, a wandering hand dipping its fingers under his waistband, his tongue being sharply sucked into John's mouth before it got soothed by tender caresses again. 

**_That you're standing behind  
_ **

He was engulfed by sensation as he had never been before; desire blooming low in his belly; heat making his own advances more daring.

He freed himself from John's hungry mouth and dove for his neck, sucking hard one time before sinking his teeth into the soft tissue of muscles right above John's scar.

As reaction John gripped Sherlock's arse and bucked his own hips forwards, pressing their groins tightly together. Sherlock couldn't help but do the same and the friction confirmed that John was just as affected as Sherlock was himself. Feeling John's hardening cock against his own through much too many layers of fabric made Sherlock gasp.

**_every word you say  
_ **

"God, Sherlock…" John growled, their mouths disconnected for the first time since forever. "I love you." He searched Sherlock's eyes who knew his own gaze was hazy at best. 

**_To make my day slowly dawning  
_ **

"I love you so fucking much… I want you so much..." John panted, holding their faces close, pressing their foreheads together. "Christ, what you're doing to me. And I've barely even touched you yet…" 

Hearing those words, the promise of everything that was to come, made a jolt of desire pulse through Sherlock's system, clouding his mind.

**_I want you to know you're the heart of my Temple of Thought  
_ **

He let out a breath, leaned heavily against John, wanted to be close. Close.

"Everything." he whispered into the small space between their faces. "I want everything, John! You're everything!"

  


********

  


He had been able to pinpoint the exact moment realisation dawned on Sherlock about John's intentions. 

The wonder widening Sherlock's eyes and causing a small hitch in his breaths filled John with joy about his own correct estimation but also saddened him, realising what an unfamiliar concept it seemed to be to Sherlock. 

He had never doubted that Sherlock would have had some kind of experience, but he had wondered. A man like Sherlock must have had lovers of some sort in the past. Sherlock himself had hinted at it, even if not rightout told him; but from the bit he had heard and what he now observed on Sherlock's face made his heart clench. He felt anger rise at faceless people who had taken advantage of Sherlock, had used Sherlock for their pleasure or who the fuck knew what else they had done. Even if it might not have been physically harmful; he felt fury about all the people who had made clear consent and free will such an alien concept to Sherlock. 

John swore to himself that he would try to right all the wrong those persons had done, be it caused by ill intent or just by indifference or carelessness. Sherlock had to know, to feel, to be shown his own worth. 

**_So when you're restless,_ **

**_I will calm the ocean for you  
_ **

Therefore, he was all the more moved when he saw Sherlock make the decision; when John realised he was willing to take the leap. Above all, with him—old grumpy, angry, stubborn and damaged John Hamish Watson. 

**_In your sorrow, I will dry your tears  
_ **

When Sherlock leaned in, John had to blink away some silly wetness that threatened to fill his eyes in regard of this enormous moment. 

**_When you need me, I will be the love beside you  
_ **

When their lips first met, John was blown away by the tenderness that spoke through Sherlock's touch. Who would have guessed how gentle and sweet that witty mouth could be. 

**_I'll take away all your fears  
_ **

And not only his touches, also his words… to be set equal—no, actually above—Sherlock's most important and special and precious feature, his brilliant mind, had left John lost for words; more of those wonderful mind blowing kisses were the only answer he had been able to think of.

**_I'll take away all of your fears  
_ **

The still urgent angst and need to be enough couldn't be left unanswered by actual words though. Sherlock had to understand. It wasn't about proving themselves to each other anymore; it was about being together, about doing it together. 

**_So you can let go all your fears  
_ **

Even if John knew that they weren't done with that specific topic by far, Sherlock's enthusiastic response to his reassurances showed how very much he agreed and it was more than welcome. 

**_Dreams have nothing on my reality high,_ **

God, he would never have been able to estimate what it would feel like if that untamed and boisterous part of Sherlock would be unleashed on an emotional level. He was like a force of nature, like a storm sweeping John from his feet; John was only able to stand a chance by giving back just as much and, oh, wasn't that the most intoxicating and explosive and dangerous combination? But then, that's what they had always been, in all possible circumstances. Why had he expected it would be any different on a physical level. 

**_On the scent of your skin  
_ **

Here he was, thinking he'd know what wanting Sherlock Holmes would feel like. Oh, how naive he had been. Confronted with his own desire mirrored and magnified by Sherlock their give and take spiraled them up and up like an impossible perpetuum mobile made possible.

**_I know we're riding endlessly into the sun,_ **

Up to the point he almost felt out of his mind and wasn't able to withstand the urge to take Sherlock right there and then anymore. 

**_Feel the life deep within  
_ **

He was glad about the short break Sherlock gave them, to calm them down a bit, to get back to their senses. Because he wanted to cherish this moment, he wanted it to be something to always be remembered. 

**_So when you're restless,_ **

**_I will calm the ocean for you  
_ **

This wasn't the kind of carnal desire that asked for chasing satisfaction as fast as possible. Oh, John didn't doubt for one second that they'd reach this point in the future more often than not. How could they not with Sherlock looking like he did?

But for now, he wanted to experience every single moment. He wanted to feel, to realise, to finally know what it was like to love Sherlock Holmes and to be loved in return.

**_In your sorrow, I will dry your tears  
_ **

He almost lost it again the moment of Sherlock's whispered 'Everything', but he reminded himself of his silent promise to show Sherlock what the meaning behind the phrase 'making love' was. He was determined to give and show Sherlock all the love he deserved. 

**_When you need me, I will be the love beside you  
_ **

So he tried to steady himself and took a deep breath, which did nothing to calm him, intoxicating as it was rich with Sherlock's scent. He cradled Sherlock's face once again to put a bit of distance between them so that they were able to look at each other.

**_I'll take away all your fears  
_ **

What he saw there almost did him in; Sherlock's face flushed, his already plush lips slightly swollen and bright red from their kissing, eyelids hanging low over dark and ravenous eyes, his hair a mess of tousled curls. 

**_I'll take away all of your fears  
_ **

"That's what I want, too. Exactly what I want, Sherlock." he murmured back and couldn't resist to steal one more kiss from that sinful mouth. It was just a short touch of lips, a chaste twirl of tongues; but when he broke the kiss Sherlock followed his mouth, leaned in, eyes closed, as if drawn in by a magnet.

**_I'll take away all your fears  
_ **

He couldn't wait any longer, he couldn't. It wasn't humanly possible to resist this man. So he met Sherlock's searching mouth once again and kissed him passionately. 

**_I'll take away all of your fears  
_ **

Resurfacing for air, he hooked his thumbs in Sherlock's belt loops and pulled him impossibly closer, making them both groan. 

"Show me what everything means, Sherlock." he said hoarsely. "Let me show you. Let's get it on." He smirked intentionally wickedly to ease the mood a bit so that they at least had a chance to make it to the bedroom.

It had the desired effect as Sherlock huffed out a laugh and eased back a bit, relieving the pressure with which he was leaning against John. Sherlock then looked down at himself and wrinkled his nose.

"I'm in quite the state though, John." he said a bit awkwardly.

"Yeah," John laughed, "you can say that. Me too. That's the whole point, right?" He grinned and leaned in to steal another kiss which Sherlock willingly offered without any hesitation.

"Not what I mean," Sherlock huffed. "The dancing was quite intense and… dusty." Sherlock looked up at John and added a bit embarrassed, "Also, I'm afraid I might smell a bit."

**_So you can let go all your fears  
_ **

Grinning devilishly John brought his face close to Sherlock's and then skimmed his neck with his nose, sniffing him. 

"Can't say that I mind," John growled and wiggled his eyebrows for good measure. 

"John," Sherlock complained, squirming.

"I know, sweetheart. Come on, I have an idea what to do about it." John grinned and took Sherlock's hand.

"Sweetheart?" Sherlock frowned but left himself be led without restraint.

"Not good? What about honey bunny?" John grinned broadly over his shoulder.

"JOHN!" Sherlock exclaimed in horror.

"Curly Wurly?" John innocently raised his eyebrows and reached for the door handle.

Sherlock only growled menacingly and tried to corner John, who opened the door behind his back, grabbed Sherlock by the front of his shirt and pulled him to follow into the bathroom.

"John, what…?" Sherlock gasped somewhat startled.

But John silenced him with a kiss and only hummed a melody he thought might be familiar even to Sherlock against his pliant lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for the chapter can be found here:
> 
> [“All of You” by John Legend](https://youtu.be/450p7goxZqg)  
>   
> [“You’re the one” by Tracy Chapman](https://youtu.be/AfKeqzkU8TU)  
>   
> [“Temple of Thought” by Poets of the Fall](https://youtu.be/DSCBIKBmwbA)  
>   
> [Playlist Chapter 20](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLLyXzbDSBo_iUw8jGpRehjgmmq8BCSbW2)  
>   
> [Playlist "Shatter Me"](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLLyXzbDSBo_hlI3eIe9OqdLP_WoH-C_Zh)  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> (PS. Thank you all for your patience, your support, your enthusiasm, your encouragement. For reading, for kudos, for life-giving comments. Thank you. On my behalf and the behalf of "my" boys. I hope their happiness is worth all the angst I put you through! Stay safe everyone!!! 💗)
> 
> * * *


	21. Hungry Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He brushed his nose against Sherlock’s, marvelling at the ease with which he did so. No hesitation, no doubts or restraints. As if it has never been different, as if this was their natural state of being. And still, the excitement at the novelty of it all sizzled through his system and sent sparks flying into the thin layer of air between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> Me and the boys are back!! Finally.  
> After a long pandemic-induced hiatus, I'm finally back on track writing these Drama Queens. They'll take seamlessly off right where the last chapter ended. I'm sorry for torturing them, but rest assured all blue-ball-syndroms will be resolved. 
> 
> A huge Thank You to everyone who's still around and following the journey of my guys. I'm endlessly grateful!! Thank you for sticking with us!!! It means the world to me! <3 
> 
> Now I won't make you wait any longer. I hope you enjoy what I have in store for them! Have fun!
> 
> * * *
> 
> *** link to song within the chapter (underlined) and in the end notes ***

  
They stumbled into the bathroom, nearly tripping over in the attempt not to break their kiss at all costs. Still humming the pleasantly familiar tune, John only just caught them, engulfing Sherlock in his arms while trying not to slip on the bath mat. The door clicked shut behind Sherlock's back when John leaned them against it to regain balance.

“Woah there… bit less enthusiastic maybe… We don’t want to break Mrs H’s bathroom furniture.” John murmured, grinning against Sherlock’s lips.

“John, but it’s been you who…” Sherlock pulled slightly back, scrunching the bridge of his nose, which made John only grin broader, his heart flowing over from the affection he felt for his man.

“Just teasing, yeah? God knows, that woman might let us starve to death to repay the costs if we crack the sink.” He brushed his nose against Sherlock’s, marvelling at the ease with which he did so. No hesitation, no doubts or restraints. As if it has never been different, as if this was their natural state of being. And still, the excitement at the novelty of it all sizzled through his system and sent sparks flying into the thin layer of air between them.

Sherlock’s breath hitched the tiniest bit, barely audible if it were not for John’s senses being on high alert. John hummed appreciatively against Sherlock’s skin, bathing in the warmth it radiated and the familiar fragrance of Sherlock’s cologne mixed with a new heady and raw scent of skin covered in fresh sweat and dust and the distinct intoxicating whiff of the thrill of entering unknown territory.

“And for the record,” John murmured, mouthing along Sherlock’s jaw, “I don’t mind any level of enthusiasm. At all.” He felt Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob under his lips and couldn’t resist flicking his tongue against it, which only made Sherlock swallow again, his head falling backwards, settling with a thump against the wooden door.

“But shower first,” Sherlock croaked, voice hoarse.

“That’s why we’re here…” John hummed, pulling back from Sherlock to take his hand and tug him away from the door into the bathroom.

“You… stay?” Sherlock frowned, insecurity and a hint of embarrassment swinging in his words.

“Mmhmm, of course I do. That’s the whole point, yeah?” John stopped them in front of the bath and pulled the shower curtains open. When he turned to look at Sherlock again the eagerness from before seemed to have subsided, shifted into tensed uncertainty. Anxiousness started to coil in John’s guts. What was wrong? Had he unknowingly crossed a line already? Sherlock had seemed to be as willing as John was. Had he misjudged the situation? No. No, he was certain he hadn’t. But then… what?

“You want to… watch.” Sherlock put it as a statement although the slight hitch of his voice at the end showed John that he was in the process of investigating, deducing, narrowing down. So it was actually a question to be answered. Why didn’t he dare to ask? John had thought it would have been fairly obvious what his intentions were.

“Among other things,” John now turned to fully face Sherlock, look him in the eyes, tried to be as open and easily readable as possible. He was running his hands slowly up and down the slim waist of the mesmerising man in front of him, feeling the loosely tucked in shirt crinkle and shift underneath his palms, and hoped it would be calming. “Wouldn’t mind getting a bit hands-on as well… if you’re okay with it, that is.” He studied Sherlock; a fleeting frown rushing across his features, there and gone.

“I’m fully capable of showering, John. I’m not that exhausted. I’ve had worse and managed.” Sherlock said calmly, cautiously.

Now it was John’s turn to frown. He cocked his head, scanning Sherlock’s face.

“That’s not… I don’t think you need assistance, Sherlock. I’d just like to… you know? Shower together. Thought it would be nice. For a start. But we don’t have to if you don’t like…” A small grunt and the surprise on Sherlock’s face stopped him. He halted, suddenly realising, then asked slowly, “You’ve never showered with someone else before? Not with anyone?”

“The need has never arisen, considering I’ve never lived under circumstances that might have caused scarcity of water or space. At least not in the company of others.” The doubt in his own reasoning was apparent and emphasised by the way Sherlock lowered his gaze and studied his dusty feet.

Right, John reminded himself, Sherlock might not be new to sex in general but John couldn’t just base his expectations and the way he approached Sherlock on his own experiences. This was new—they were new together—they had to learn together, get to know each other. Make a new start. So John took a deep breath, he hoped as discreetly as possible not to give Sherlock a wrong impression, and tried to radiate all the positivity and anticipation he felt about their situation. He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s waist the tiniest bit, moved barely noticeable closer, just enough to catch Sherlock’s attention again, making him look up again.

“I’d like to take this shower with you not because we _need_ to but because I _want_ to. Yeah, I’d really really like that. It can be really nice. Thought about it more than once…” he said, calmy, holding Sherlock’s gaze.

“You have?” Sherlock’s eyes widened, although not in shock or surprise John realised. No, it was something akin to wonder. Recognition even?

“Mmmhmm,” John confirmed, and encouraged by the slight blush colouring Sherlock’s cheekbones and the shuddering breath he rather felt underneath his hands than heard, John let his hands slowly wander upwards, giving Sherlock all the time to back out, and reached for the top buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. “May I?” he whispered, trying to take in all of Sherlock’s beautiful face, to detect any sign of discomfort. When he found none and there was only a small nod coming from the man, watching him silently, he pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of Sherlock’s throat between his collarbones and popped the first button open. It felt like so much more though; it felt like opening a door that had been locked for ages. Like opening it wide, revealing a secret garden. Like taking the last step over the threshold and setting foot into the beauty of the forbidden place for the first time. And yet, it felt like finally coming home.

Relishing the moment, cherishing every single button and every bit of newly revealed skin, John felt the warmth and excitement and giddy happiness from earlier return and he automatically resumed humming what had come to him out of nowhere but now seemed more fitting than anything else.

The streaks of his past, which the tune indivisibly carried with it, slithered into his presence, merged the long-lost 'then' with the new gained 'now', almost choking him; the humming became a bit blurred from the air of sentiment it was engulfed in. Withstanding his first instinct to push back the unwanted memories and emotions that were inevitably part of it, he realised he couldn’t let that happen again. The past shouldn’t still have that much power over him. If he continued to swallow it down, to bury it within himself, it would constantly gnaw at him and slowly eat him up. He had to let it go, now that he had overcome it. However, therefore he had to allow it to surface, he had to face it rather than fight it.

Having reached the last button, John tugged at the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, freeing it from the restraint of his waistband, and let it fall open. For a moment he could nothing but stare. It wasn’t the first time he saw Sherlock bare-chested of course. However now, with the trust it revealed and the promises hanging in the air, it was bathed in a new light.

John reached out and gently placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest. The sight of his own skin on Sherlock’s skin, the feeling of a rapidly beating heart under his palm, the slight pressure against his hand caused by the in and out of a living human’s breathing—a living _Sherlock’s_ breathing—made John’s eyes well up with tears of gratitude. Slowly, tenderly, he let his fingertips slide down Sherlock’s torso, aware and relieved that it gave him a reason to hide the traitorous moisture in his eyes.

When he had made his way all down to the sparse bristly hair right underneath Sherlock’s navel he let his hand fall to his side for a split second before taking hold of Sherlock’s arm, which was offered without any reluctance. John made work of rolling down the sleeve of Sherlock’s shirt, just to gain some time to get some grip again.

“What is it you’re humming?” Sherlock asked quietly, softly. Apparently, he had picked up on the shift in mood despite John’s best efforts. John loved him just that bit more for not addressing it straight out.

“You don’t recognise it? Am I that bad?” John asked lightly, grasping for the chance to save what was left of the easiness he had felt before.

“If _that’s_ the case, I can’t be completely sure of course,” Sherlock teased back. John dared to look up at him, now that there was no need to hide anymore, and was relieved to find a playful smirk on Sherlock’s lips and his eyes warmly looking back at him. Just as gently he said, “Although, I’m quite certain I’m not familiar with it.”

“You’re not?” John stopped in his effort to roll down the second sleeve. Sherlock slowly shook his head, a pensive look on his face.

“Should I be?” he asked, the amused undertone making his own opinion on that matter quite obvious.

“ _Everyone_ knows that song!” John exclaimed in disbelief. “At least from our generation,” he backpaddled, a bit more mellow, going back to his task on Sherlock’s sleeve. “But then you’re not everyone. Of course you wouldn’t know it.”

He slightly tugged at Sherlock’s cuffs to ease them over the wrists, but wasn’t given any assistance. Quizzically he looked at Sherlock and was puzzled at the hint of hurt showing in the lines around his eyes.

“It’s from a movie, you know?” He let go of the cuffs, sliding his hands up Sherlock’s arms instead. “A romantic and sentimental, not very ambitious and pretty predictable movie. You would’ve hated it.” he said, reaching Sherlock’s shoulders. “I must have been… what? 15? Maybe 16 years old? … You probably had much more important things to do at that time.” He let his hands glide up Sherlock’s nape and cupped the back of his head, fingers tangled in curls. “For example blowing up your mother’s kitchen.” John grinned and got up on his tiptoes to press a firm kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

Relieved to feel Sherlock’s lips immediately going soft and pliant, John deepened the kiss, pulling Sherlock towards him, trying to find the perfect angle to coax Sherlock’s lips to part and allow him in. Without any effort he was met by Sherlock’s eager tongue, warm and soft, teasing and caressing John's in an intimate dance. Sherlock’s hands came up to John’s waist, steadying him when he started to slightly sway on his tiptoes.

After a while, John had to lower his heels back to the floor, which broke the kiss and gave them the opportunity to get some dearly needed air. Both panting, their gazes locked, John could feel the mutual agreement; they were in this together. No need for caution, no need for anxious mood swings. No need for doubts the other would change his mind. Together meant… well… together. As one. Sharing their lives, not hiding.

“This song though,” John said, still a bit out of breath, “well, it means something to me. At least, here. Now. Because...

“[ ** _I've been meaning to tell you_**](https://youtu.be/i5KI4bM_zIo),” John started to sing, a bit uncertain, feeling a bit silly. However, this was what had been going through his mind all along humming this song. Sherlock had asked what it was he was humming; and it wasn't the name of the song he wanted to know. The actual question had been what it meant to John. And probably also, why.

“ ** _I've got this feelin' that won't subside,  
_** ** _I look at you and I fantasise_** ,” John pushed himself to more confidence. He had nothing to hide after all. This was what he wanted and this was what he wanted Sherlock to know.

“ ** _You're mine and tonight_** ,” he let his hands trail down Sherlock’s nape, slid them underneath his collar and along his neck to his shoulders.

“ ** _Now I've got you in my sights_** ,” he fixed Sherlock with his eyes, trying to convey everything he meant to say, and carefully pushed Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders and let it slither to the ground.

“ ** _With these hungry eyes_** ,” Sherlock cocked one questioning mirthful eyebrow; John smirked and winked at him, demonstratively letting his appreciative and... well... hungry gaze roam Sherlock’s bare upper body. Not long before his hands joined in, exploring what he had indeed only been allowed to fantasise about, until now.

“ ** _One look at you and I can't disguise,  
I've got hungry eyes,  
I feel the magic between you and I_**,” he slid his hands around Sherlock’s slim but muscular waist. On their way he let his fingers dip under the waistband of Sherlock's bespoke black trousers, pulling the man closer to press his mouth against Sherlock’s chest; not quite a kiss, more of a connection, a junction to exchange warmth, closeness of body and soul, love. Closing his eyes, he took in a shuddering breath, deeply inhaling every single molecule of Sherlock’s scent he could gather. There were goosebumps forming on Sherlock’s skin under John’s hands and a faint tremble ran through the man’s body. John opened his eyes and looked up at him.

“Cold?” he asked, but Sherlock only studied him intently with night-sky-eyes and faintly shook his head ‘no’.

“You still know the lyrics.” Sherlock stated, under his breath.

“By heart.” John confirmed, quietly.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, just as quiet, squinting his eyes although without the scrutiny the gesture normally held. Honestly curious, empathetic, gentle.

John swallowed, intentionally not avoiding Sherlock’s questioning gaze. Alright then, he had seen it coming. But even then, digging deep to wake the buried ghosts took the kind of courage that was never honoured with a shiny medal. At best, afterwards, one was no longer haunted; rewarded with one burden less to carry.

Keeping his hands folded behind Sherlock’s back for support, he pressed a fleeting kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder, then nodded; showing Sherlock that he had understood, knew what Sherlock had asked and that he was willing to share it with him.

Sherlock lifted his hands, rubbed John’s upper arms firmly, seemed to sense that John needed to be grounded, to feel his body, stay in the here and now. After a moment, the hands eased their hold, slowed down; trailed towards John’s collar. After another small nod of John, allowing what the hands hand been searching for, Sherlock gently repaid the favour and slowly started to unbutton John’s shirt.

“I’ve probably seen that movie a hundred times. I don’t know, stopped counting. It’s embarrassing really…” John cleared his throat to get rid of the lump that made his voice sound thick. He was grateful that Sherlock just listened, eyes shortly flicking up to his, otherwise concentrating on his task.

"It all started when the movie hit the theatres. Harry had set her mind on seeing it on the big screen but my mom refused letting her go alone. And don't get me started on my dad's reaction… Not even with her friends. And God forbid with a boy! With her being a vulnerable young lady alone on the street at night and such crap. Ha! They really didn't know their daughter well…"

Sherlock shot him a short amused look, hummed affirmative, having heard enough stories about John's sister to know he was right. John smiled ruefully back before he continued, constantly aware of Sherlock's hands brushing light as feathers over the still small but slowly growing patch of his bare skin.

"Yeah, and of course I've been the poor sod who had to protect her. God, you can't imagine all the ways the rugby guys made me suffer for going to see such 'sappy sissy crap'," he still winced remembering that time, being torn between two worlds, two lives, neither of which he actually wanted. But option number three hadn't presented itself yet. For that, he had had to wait for another long 23 years. And even then he had been too blind, his gaze too fogged by the ashes of all the bridges burned, to recognise it for what it was.

He did see it clearly now though, recognised it. He had finally found it. The life he loved. The love of his life. Right in front of him. Solid and living and real. And against all odds—loving him back.

"Yeah, that's how it started. After that, we made use of every opportunity we got to see it as often as our time and our money allowed us. I would never have admitted it though, found excuses to avoid telling my mates, complained to my parents, sat in the seat next to Harry and sulked. But I went, you know? I went with her, every single time." He sighed. Thinking back, how utterly ridiculous it had been. And how much hurt it had caused.

Just that moment Sherlock had opened the last reachable button above John's waistband; nothing else yet. No unnecessary touch, no kiss, no look that lasted longer than needed. And for some reason that was more caring than any physical attempt to comfort him could have been. As meticulous and mindful as he otherwise only treated his specimens or crucial evidence on a crime scene Sherlock gently plucked at the fabric of John's shirt in the narrow space between them to pull it out of the waistband of his denims.

"I didn't tell anyone. But Harry and I… she knew. We both knew. I would have denied it if she'd ever asked though. But we knew.” He paused for a moment, actively taking in the moment. Reminding himself that he wasn’t just recalling his past, but telling about it. Telling Sherlock. For a reason. “There was this guy…"

Sherlock looked up at him, his hands stilled. John smiled, although a bit forced, and shrugged slightly which made the shirt slide on his shoulders, opening wider, exposing more of his skin. He was hyper-aware of Sherlock’s breath ghosting over it.

"I told myself that I admired him, wanted to be like him—the epitome of a womaniser, the tough underdog, the rebel, who in the end got the girl after all." He huffed.

"And?" asked Sherlock, softly, while gently pushing John away, just enough to create some space for him to finish freeing John's shirt. John did take a step back, however he couldn’t bring himself to break the touch, to let go of Sherlock. He couldn’t—not now; not ever again. His hands lingered on Sherlock’s hips, and in wonder his fingers traced tender lines on the hot skin just above the waistband. When Sherlock slipped the last previously hidden button through its hole John’s shirt fell open and hung loosely over his shoulders. John shivered, although not from being cold.

"Later I tried to tell myself that I was jealous of him,” John soldiered on, voice small but determined, while Sherlock let his gaze wander over John’s torso. “A much nastier feeling, you know? Would have explained the ache…" If the sharp scornful edge that had snuck into his voice hadn't gone unnoticed, at least Sherlock didn't show. The slight trembling of his fingers however wasn't lost on John before Sherlock's hands steadily splayed on John's abdomen, in firm and unhurried strokes mapping out the landscape of John's skin. The unsteady breath he took pulled John out of the cocoon of sensations he had been lost in and he realised that he needed to go on. Check off that chapter. He wanted his full focus to be completely back on Sherlock again, but this had to be said. Now. He couldn’t just stop and let it hang in the air. He longed for more lightness. He was sure though that at some point they would have it. But only if they got rid of the burdens weighing them down.That was what had gone wrong in the past. He would not make that mistake again.

“I wasn’t able to hold up that farce though, when my mom got us our first video tape player. It was some time after the movie came out already, but it was the first movie Harry got and it became our go-to movie for… everything actually.”

“And why is this troubling you so much?” Sherlock’s hands rested on John’s shoulders now, his eyes studying him earnestly but fondly.

“Can’t you deduce it?” John huffed a laugh that ended up more sad than amused.

“I thought we agreed on no more assumptions?” Sherlock said, without any hurt or accusation.

John closed his eyes and tilted his head, brushing his ear and cheek over Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hips and felt Sherlock’s hands squeeze in response. A silent conversation. ... _‘I need you’...’I’m here’_... Not everything needed words.

“True.” He said, sighed. “You’re right.”

“As usual,” Sherlock murmured, smirk poorly hidden. John huffed, this time with nothing but amusement and love.

“Git.” he countered affectionately, as was their habit. It felt good to have things being ‘theirs’ again. Not long ago John had thought he had lost that for good. Sherlock grinned at him as if trying to erase that memory.

“Go on then,” he said with another encouraging squeeze.

“It’s troubling me because… I knew. All that time. Since then. That was the moment I realised I was bisexual. I _am_ bisexual.” John searched Sherlock’s gaze, who had started stroking John’s shoulders with his thumbs. Sherlock leaned forward, pressed a kiss against John’s forehead. The tenderness of the gesture flooded John with warmth from head to toe, helping to melt the icy guilt that had made its home in his heart since that time. John was certain that Sherlock did deduce what was going on; he was holding John in his arms nonetheless. Apparently he didn’t care. Or didn’t mind. Or was at peace with it.

“And Harry knew," John winced, "even though we never talked about it. But it was the shared amusement when people mocked us. So sweet Harry’s crush on that handsome actor. And oh, John, you’re really head over heels for that girl, aren’t you? Better get yourself a real chick, otherwise you’d never get laid.” he imitated the still stinging comments.

“You did take care of _that_ part though.” Sherlock grinned against his forehead. “Overcompensated really.”

“Sherlooock,” John complained, embarrassed, even though he wasn’t sure about what exactly.

“It’s true.” Sherlock said, shrugging.

“Doesn’t mean it’s good.” John grimaced, but didn’t pull away from Sherlock’s lips.

“It is what it is,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yeah, and what it is is shit.” John grumbled silently.

“Not here. Not now.” Sherlock said softly, planting tiny kisses along John’s brow and on his temple. His hands had made their way to John’s neck, brushing up and down over the short strands on his nape. John sighed and relaxed into the caress. “So,” Sherlock murmured between kisses, “the handsome tough womaniser opened your eyes… Wouldn’t have thought that was your type?!” John dug his fingertips into Sherlock’s sides, tickling him, making him chuckle and jerk in surprise.

“He really was hot as hell though. All self-confidence and no-nonsense attitude. Leather jacket and cars and sunglasses. And that ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’-vibe…” John groaned, “... well, definitely a shitload of ‘ _do_ -fuck-with-me’-vibes as well.” John could feel the vibrations of Sherlock’s silent laughter under his hands and joined in. “You really can’t blame me!”

“Oh, I’m definitely not blaming you.” Sherlock said, cupping John’s cheeks, cradling John’s face in his big gentle hands. “You have to give me his name and address so I can thank him appropriately.” He smirked before leaning in and kissing John in the most tender and heartfelt and reassuring way. It made John weak in the knees and Sherlock pulled back just in time before John would have needed to sit down.

“He was a dancer, you know?” John said, panting, still out of breath from the kiss. He didn’t know why it seemed important for Sherlock to know.

“Oh. Was he?” Sherlock cocked his head slightly.

“Yep. Got some moves, let me tell you. Movie was named ‘Dirty Dancing’ for a reason…” John grinned lasciviously and let his hands wander lower over Sherlock’s hips, as far as he could reach, settling them where Sherlock’s back merged into the swell of his arse. The motion made John's shirt slide off of his shoulders, ending up hanging low behind his back, trapped for now in the crooks of his arms.

“We should watch it together someday.” Sherlock hummed, eyeing John's exposed shoulders appreciatively. “Maybe I can get some… inspiration.” And he let himself willingly be pulled closer until they were pressed flush against each other—feet bumping against feet, settling side by side, shins and calves leaning against shins and calves, knees trapping each other, thighs pressed together all the way up to their groins. The heat simmering underneath their clothes, under their skin, crawling through their veins, flared up again. John felt it unfurl and grow and flicker through his body. They were swaying slightly, unsteady, in the attempt to keep eye contact despite their closeness.

“He was tall, with dark wavy hair. A fucking show-off. And his bloody trousers… far too tight to be legal,” John splayed his hands over Sherlock’s arse to make his point. “Maybe I have a type after all…”

John didn’t miss the pleased and delighted glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes, even though the man didn’t waste any time to engulf him in another all-consuming kiss. John’s mind got fuzzy and he wondered why it had seemed important to talk at all… what was it he had wanted to say anyway? He was about to drop the talking all together, circling his arms around Sherlock’s middle, pulling him closer and closer still. Their bare upper bodies touching took the last bit of breath he had left away—feeling their body warmth blend, unhindered by the barrier of clothes; the velvet like slide of skin against skin; the undulating rise and fall of a flat solid chest against his own—John's mind had stopped processing and he had to give in and give himself over to the shockwave of sensations. He wanted to drown in it and never surface again.

He was beginning to get disoriented when Sherlock slid his arms even further around John's shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer and into a tight hug; their mouths inevitably losing contact. A displeased whine escaped him and Sherlock, panting heavily, cupped the back of his head and just held him; after a short moment he slowly lowered his head and rested his cheek on top of John's hair.

"That's not all, is it?" he said under his breath, and John needed a moment to make sense of it. What did he mean? The moment his mind caught up, he groaned. He hated Sherlock just the tiniest bit for reminding him, but he loved him even more for staying true to their promise, to their agreement. For both of them. It was just… he was tired of it. All he wanted was to hold Sherlock, to drown in their kisses, to explore what lay ahead of them. To leave the past behind. But for that…

"No, you're right. That isn't all of it. It's actually about what came after." John sighed defeated. Sherlock still held him close, brushed his nose through John's hair, let one of his hands wander over John's back.

"When they found out about Harry. And Harry's girlfriend. It was hell, Sherlock. I couldn't stand the constant fighting, stayed over at friends more often than not. I left her there all alone. I didn't stand by her side." He swallowed, hard, and felt his throat choke up. "And then, one day, it escalated. As much as my mom and dad hated each other, that day they were as a unit against Harry. And where was I? In my room, muffling the arguments with music. Did nothing but wait for the storm to pass. And she knew, Sherlock. She was called names and got insulted and I didn't do anything about it. A fucking coward." his voice was strangled.

"It wasn't your time." Sherlock said softly.

"It wasn't so much about me, about 'coming out' or whatever. I didn't support her one speck even though we both knew we were the same. Or at least similar. I was the lucky one who could hide behind a facade of half-truths though. The day she moved out I literally saw the hurt of betrayal in her eyes. The bond we had broke that day and has never been fixed since."

John shivered under Sherlock's touch, who now painted patterns with his fingertips on John's skin. John wished they would leave actual traces. He turned his head and nestled his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"The first time I loudly proclaimed not to be gay, was like slapping her in the face. And I knew what I was doing to her. And did it anyway."

John felt Sherlock tensing up for the fraction of a second and his caresses lost their rhythm for a short moment, before he had himself back under control, trying to stifle the clearing of his throat. John closed his eyes. He was well aware of what Sherlock had heard between the lines. That was the whole point, wasn't it? He pressed a small kiss on Sherlock's neck. _'As if that would be enough to make up for anything',_ he thought sarcastically.

"It got easier each time I said it until I internalised it at some point. And the easier it got the more it hurt Harry. At the end there, I could just as well have kicked her with my feet, already lying on the ground and bleeding." He shifted in Sherlock's arms, drinking in their closeness, scarcely able to believe that Sherlock still held him… tender, loving… as if he was worth it. "And to top it all off, I kept blaming her for her alcohol abuse and her anger issues, never openly acknowledging my own problems. There's a pattern, you see? I'm a coward." He noticed that Sherlock's hands had halted their wandering, arms encircling his shoulders, the thumb of Sherlock's left hand cautiously moving over the scar of the bullet wound in a careful caress.

"I'm not any better than that scum of a father I had," he winced and whispered against Sherlock's neck, "and each time I hear this song I'm reminded of it, even though I love the song. Along with all the good memories, it also holds this truth."

Suddenly, he was shoved back forcefully, painfully parted from the grounding and soothing warmth of Sherlock's embrace. His shirt fell to the floor. His blurry gaze was met by Sherlock's stern stare, eyebrows drawn together, brow wrinkled.

"Stop!" Sherlock said insistently. "Stop that, John."

"But it's true." John protested weakly.

"John, you're not your father!" Sherlock held John's gaze, the look in his eyes earnest and sincere, desperation edging in. "You're _Not_ your father."

"What makes you so sure?" John asked, bitterly. Apparently, this wasn't shaken off that easily.

"You're regretting it. You regretted it every single day. You're ashamed and you feel guilty." Sherlock said, convinced. "I'm quite certain he never did."

"I hurt her." John said, voice low and rough.

"Yes, you did. And it can't be undone." Sherlock said quietly and they both knew that they weren't only talking about Harry.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock!" It was barely more than a whisper.

"I know, John." Sherlock answered, softly, his eyes roaming John's face as tender as a caress.

"I don't want to hurt you again." John said under his breath, barely able to stand the affection radiating from Sherlock's eyes.

"I know, John." Sherlock pulled him into a hug again, "I never wanted to hurt you either. And still, we did. Over and over again." he paused, sighed. "I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human."

"Even you?" John chuckled despite all gravity.

"No." Sherlock murmured into John's hair before pressing a kiss on top of John's head. "Even you, John Watson. You're the bravest man and the most human human being I've ever known."

"Hey, that's my part…" John laughed despite the lump forming in his throat and the tears welling up. "Come up with your own sappy lines…"

"What about... I'd really love to hear the rest of your song and then get you out of those trousers…?" Sherlock chuckled, warmly looking down at him.

"Not exactly sappy, but it'll do for a start," John grinned, one unruly tear escaping and rolling down his cheek, washing away the fog of the past that had overshadowed the first glimmers of a bright future ahead.

"I'll show you sappy," he murmured, reaching up, pulling Sherlock down. Sherlock's thumb brushed over John's cheek, wiping away the tear, before they melted together in a kiss—unburdened, unhurried, carrying the certainty that they had all the time in the world.

"Come here, you," John said, voice low and sultry, circling Sherlock's waist with one arm and pulling him very suggestively closer.

" ** _I want to hold you so hear me out_** ," he sang intimately hushed but without hesitation. When Sherlock raised his eyebrows John pressed a finger against his lips and started swaying to the imaginary music in his head, leaving Sherlock no choice than to follow his lead, making their bodies delicately moving against each other.

" ** _I want to show you what love's all about_** _,_ " The hand around Sherlock's waist traveled downward until it cupped one of Sherlock's arse cheeks, squeezing it and bringing their groins together in a very tempting touch, making them both groan. However, this wasn’t about sex—not _only_ about sex, even though John couldn’t deny that it most certainly was a welcome part of it. But above all, he wanted to show Sherlock what it was like to be loved. To be loved by John Watson.

" ** _Darling tonight_** ," With the hand not currently occupied by Sherlock’s delicious arse, he reached behind himself and turned the shower on, the white noise of the running water immersing them in a bubble of anticipation and intimacy.

“ ** _Now I've got you in my sights_** ,” The last few minutes left behind, the burdens not gone but at least laid to rest, John felt now free as never before to look at Sherlock—really look at him without anything holding him back—and let the truly miraculous wonder of the moment sink in. How was he so lucky that his more than bumpy path had let him _here_? To this man— _his_ man—for him to love, to hold, to touch?

“ ** _With these hungry eyes_** ,” So he did exactly that, let the palms of his hands slide over Sherlock’s skin, cherishing every inch of it. One hand on his back, keeping him close, recognising the bumpy stripes covering the tender surface with a sting, but not addressing it. Not now. Now was not the time. The other one travelling over his belly, his pectorals, his neck up until he could card his fingers through the curls getting damp from the steam of the shower running hot.

“ ** _One look at you and I can't disguise_** ,” Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back in obvious pleasure. His hands were now running up and down John’s back as well, crisscrossing their path as if indecisive between aming for hugging him closer or exploring more of him.

“ ** _I've got hungry eyes_** ,” Still singing quietly, John took that decision from Sherlock and abandoned the frizzling mob of hair in favour of returning his attention to Sherlock’s quickly rising and falling chest. The skin got slick in the humid air in the bathroom, turning the former brush of calloused palms on sensative skin into a glide, turning rough into soft, changing grounding into sensual.

“ ** _I feel the magic between you and I_** ,” Encouraged by Sherlock’s responsiveness John ran his thumbs over Sherlock’s nipples, circling them, felt the tingling of the hardening nubs under his own sensitive skin. The sharp inhale through Sherlock’s parted lips, sent a buzz through John’s body, causing a tension that had nothing to do with the former hesitation, but all with restrained impatience and want.

“ ** _With these hungry eyes_** ,” Not able to resist the temptation, John leaned forward, flicking one of the nipples with the tip of his tongue, just once, his hands making their way down Sherlock’s sides. He kissed and licked along Sherlock’s collarbone, until his fingers reached the button of Sherlock’s trousers.

“ ** _Now I've got you in my sights_** ,” he sang, looked at Sherlock, waited until the man lowered his chin, surfaced enough to look at John with hooded eyes.

“May I,” he whispered, just to be sure, to let Sherlock know he could stop this at any point.

“Of course,” Sherlock said in his ‘don’t-be-an-idiot-John’-tone, but all sharpness was lost in the hoarseness of his voice and the desire dazed gaze.

“ ** _With these hungry eyes_** ,” Eyes locked with Sherlock’s, John took a step back, easing the pressure on both their trapped and stirring cocks and popped the button through it’s hole. The hiss of the first zipper teeth letting go of each other pierced the quiet as if amplified by the gravity of the moment. Sherlock swallowed, never avoiding John's eyes, a flicker of shyness in his otherwise devouring gaze.

“ ** _Now did I take you by surprise_** ,” John stilled his hands.

“This okay?” he murmured, scanning Sherlock’s face, almost losing himself in the depth of the emotions it showed.

“John…” Despite it being barely more than a breath, he managed to sound slightly annoyed, slightly impatient, but most of all full of devotion and longing.

“ ** _I need you to see_** ,” He lowered the rest of the zipper without any hesitation left, felt the unmistakable bulge under his fingers. Sliding his hands around Sherlock’s hips, underneath the inconveniently tight waistband, he once more reached for that plush arse he had dreamt about far too many times. God, separated by the thin fabric of Sherlock’s pants only, it felt so much softer, warmer; so much more real. Stepping closer again, putting some pressure on his wrists, he eased the waistband over the curve of the behind he was holding firmly right now and finally Sherlock’s trousers slid down and pooled around his feet. Without wasting a second, Sherlock stepped out of it, simultaneously slipping out of his socks the same way John had witnessed him doing on that memorable day at Battersea; the last time John had seen Sherlock in not much more than his pants. Who would have thought then, that he would have this now. Not him.

“ ** _This love was meant to be_** ,” His words against Sherlock’s lips, swallowed down in a feverish and demanding kiss, John claimed what was his; fingers digging into flesh, holding, squeezing, tangled into hair, holding Sherlock in place to deepen the kiss even further, even though the man didn’t make any attempt to pull away.

Rather the opposite actually. Hastily, clumsily, Sherlock fumbled with the button of John's denims between their bodies, a low groan reflecting his frustration at the discovery of more buttons in place of a zipper.

John chuckled, never dislodging from Sherlock's lips. He nudged Sherlock's hands away and took over the job while Sherlock switched between clutching his elbows and hooking a thumb into John's waistband to check his progress—without much success. Why for fuck's sake had he chosen the snugly fitting ones this morning? He should have listened to Greg! Well, nothing new there…

In the end, together they managed to shimmy him out of his denims; with some awkward hopping, a lot of affectionate giggles and stolen kisses whenever possible. It was as if now they had given in they weren’t able to stop; not that John wanted to. Not at all. If it were up to him, he would spend the rest of his life kissing these lips.

Once accomplished that task, they cherished the moment—just looking at each other, seeing each other for the first time as lovers. Because that’s what they were now. And it was still mind blowing!

Now the urgency had receded a bit, John sensed the hesitation hanging in the air how to proceed from here on—both standing there in their pants only, holding each other, about to take the last step. Internally John laughed at himself, rolled his eyes in the best Sherlock manner. What was he? A nervous teenage schoolboy about to have sex for the first time? He couldn’t even remember how many times he had been in this same situation; he had never hesitated or even spent a single thought about getting his partners out of their clothes as quickly as possible. But then, this _wasn’t_ the same situation, was it? God, he couldn’t wait to have Sherlock naked, that wasn’t it. But he had never been afraid to ruin anything. He had never worried if his partners showed up again or not. Inconvenient if someone hadn’t, but no drama either. Now however…

Knowing he had to take the lead here, he held Sherlock’s gaze, hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his own pants and pulled them unceremoniously down. He stepped into the shower and held his hand out for Sherlock to take, leaving it to Sherlock to discard his last item of clothing at his own pace. Sherlock took a moment, just looking at him with, well, hungry eyes; running his gaze up and down John’s body, the lingering look on his crotch hardly missable. John was more than aware of his erection bobbing at the prospect of what was coming, although he suspected he wasn’t alone in that.

As if snapped out of a dream, Sherlock inhaled sharply, eyes flipping up to John’s. As fluent and quick as an escape artist Sherlock removed his pants and took hold of John’s hand to join him.

As soon as they stepped under the spray of hot water together all bashfulness was washed away and a sort of eagerness, of hunger, took over. The mix of sensations was heady, the warmth, the patter of the drops on hyper-sensitive skin, the static of the rushing water and above all… hands. Hands everywhere, sliding on slick skin, exploring, caressing, claiming, demanding. Urgent. Needy. And kisses. The taste of their mouths, their tongues, mixed with the sweetness of the water running over their faces. Not bothered by hair plastered on foreheads, eyes stinging from washed out hair products—nothing was important right now but their bodies together, skin on skin, heart to heart.

His mouth occupied, his mind too dizzy to form words, John went back to humming, his mouth against Sherlock's, sending tingling vibrations through both their lips, exaggerated by the water pulling the sensation along down their skin.

**_I've got hungry eyes_ **

**_One look at you and I can't disguise_ **

With difficulties John pulled back, tenderly pushed Sherlock’s curls out of his face. He reached for Sherlock’s shampoo, squeezed a bit of it into his palm and started spreading it in Sherlock’s hair. It was a bit awkward, reaching up for it like he had to with their difference in height, but the blissed out expression on Sherlock’s face made it all worth it. John increased the pressure slightly, moved on to massaging Sherlock’s scalp and marvelled at the man’s beautiful face, all relaxed, eyes closed. Lashes clinging to pinkened cheeks.

“Not that bad, is it?” He said happily through the buzz of the water, just hard enough for Sherlock to hear. A low confirming and content hum put a smile on his face. “Rinse,” he ordered softly, pulling Sherlock closer, under the stream of water.

**_I've got hungry eyes_ **

**_I feel the magic between you and I_ **

He followed the foam sliding over Sherlock’s naked form with his eyes, envying it until he realised that he was allowed to trace its path with his fingers. Not bothering with soap, he lavered Sherlock’s skin with the remaining foam, running his hands over every single square centimetre, hoping he didn’t cross any line when he nudged Sherlock’s arms for him to raise them over his head to have access to the tender skin on the inside of his upper arms, his armpits, his ribcage, all the way down to his hips.

**_I've got hungry eyes_ **

**_Now I've got you in my sights_ **

Sherlock’s arms dropped to John’s shoulders, his hazy gaze now rested on John’s face. He snatched his own shampoo, copied John’s actions and… God knows, John had taken countless showers with no idea how many people before, but… it had never felt this good.

Continuing what he had begun, John moved further to Sherlock’s buttocks, felt them flex under his hands, pulling Sherlock closer, their erect cocks sliding deliciously against each other. He realized the fingers in his hair had stilled and the breaths close to his ear were shallow and stuttering.

**_With the hungry eyes_ **

**_Now did I take you by surprise?_ **

Searching Sherlock’s eyes he found them closed, almost squeezed shut. A shiver ran through Sherlock’s body and a sudden heat flared up low in John’s belly. It pulsed in waves through his abdomen, his pelvis, throbbing in his cock. Without much thinking he reached for Sherlock’s balls with one hand, cupping them, then pressing his flat palm against Sherlock’s straining erection. He groaned when he felt Sherlock bucking his hips, pushing his groin even firmer against John’s hand.

“Oh god… John…” Sherlock breathed out, his knees buckling, his feet almost slipping on the wet surface.

**_With my hungry eyes_ **

**_With my hungry eyes_ **

John caught him in his arm, pressing them flush against each other. Their stiff members trapped between their bodies, panting mouths only an inch apart. The increasing hum of pleasure radiating through his body caused John’s own eyelids to drop. Moaning, he captured Sherlock’s lips in a kiss.

“John… I… god...” Sherlock gasped between breaths.

John’s eyes snapped open; Sherlock sounded tense. Almost pained? Overwhelmed!

It wouldn’t take long, for neither of them, he was sure. But seeing Sherlock like this, completely shattered by a simple shower together, John wondered… Was this how he wanted it to go? Like this—barely aware of what happened, awkwardly slipping, almost falling, without any space or opportunity to show Sherlock how cherished he was?

**_Now I've got you in my sights_ **

**_With my hungry eyes_ **

He took a breath, gently pushing Sherlock back; on the way pressing reassuring kisses on his cheek, his still closed eyelids, his forehead, his mouth.

“Love,” he murmured softly and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open. “Why don’t you get out of the shower first, wrap yourself in one of your probably insanely expensive towels and get the bedroom ready?” He searched Sherlock’s eyes who studied him, trying to deduce him, apparently without much success. The brilliant brain shut down by a bit of fooling around. A small fond smile spread on John’s lips. “Give me five minutes to finish here and I’ll follow you, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded tentatively and John steadied him to help him step out of the bath on wobbly legs.

“Just… don’t disappear on me, yeah?” He winked at Sherlock.

“Never again, John.” Sherlock whispered, wrapping himself in a towel, pressing his still damp lips on John’s. “Thank you.”

“Off you go then,” John said, his heart skipping a beat at the vulnerability Sherlock allowed him to see. “I’ll be with you in a heartbeat…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, forever, I'm eternally grateful for my invaluable betas and friends and lifesavers [Littleweedwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleweedwrites/pseuds/littleweedwrites) and [Jobooksandcoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jobooksandcoffee/pseuds/Jobooksandcoffee)!!! They pull me through, they believed in me and this story. They are my greatest cheerleaders and my muses. Thank you, darlings! I wouldn't know what to do without you.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Song for the chapter:  
> ["Hungry Eyes" Eric Carmen](https://youtu.be/i5KI4bM_zIo)
> 
> [Playlist "Shatter Me"](https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLLyXzbDSBo_hlI3eIe9OqdLP_WoH-C_Zh)

**Author's Note:**

> All my gratitude to arianedevere for her transcripts. They're the fuel for my obsession with bbc canon references!
> 
> * * *
> 
> This fic is betaed by my lovely friends and enthusiastic cheerleaders [@shylockgnomes](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/shylockgnomes) on tumblr/ [littleweedwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleweedwrites/pseuds/littleweedwrites) on ao3 and [@Jobooksncoffee](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/jobooksncoffee) on tumblr/ [Jobooksandcoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jobooksandcoffee/pseuds/Jobooksandcoffee) on ao3 (and also [@mylastvow](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/mylastvow) for being ever so enduring and patient in the early stages of this fic). All remaining mistakes and general fuck-ups are all my own fault!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nothing To Lose But You -Three Days Grace: Sherlock Edition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25098304) by [Ashasmewmew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashasmewmew/pseuds/Ashasmewmew)




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